


a fortune for your disaster

by littlesnowpea



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, Married Couple, POV Alternating, pete is a saint, poor Patrick, there might be magic and there might not be don't worry about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-03-20 15:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18995728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: Patrick knows three things: he's back on tour with Fall Out Boy after a hiatus, he's happily married to Allie, the love of his life, and life couldn't be going better for him.He doesn't know two things: who the fuck the hot stranger is in his bunk, and why everyone is insisting that the stranger is Patrick's husband.Something's not right here--if only Patrick could figure out what was right to begin with.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my first chaptered fic! i'm kind of trying this out to see if it'll work for me. updates will be every sunday (yes i know i'm already late, good start, right?).
> 
> title from 'don't you know who i think i am?'.
> 
> the name of patrick's wife is a SICK soul punk reference, dudes.

If Patrick had to pick the ultimate least-favorite thing about tour ever, it would have to be sleeping in the bunks. God, he missed hotels, hotels were the best part of tour, because then he wasn’t shoved awkwardly in a bunk, sweating to death behind the curtains because there was no A/C, feeling trapped and claustrophobic. 

Like now. 

He was too tired to wake up, but he abandoned the idea of sleeping any further to rot away for him to regret later. It was too uncomfortable to fall back asleep--it was hot and cramped and he had to piss like a motherfucker. 

He stretched, right elbow hitting the wall at the exact wrong angle, sending jarring vibrations down his arm to his fingers. He grimaced, eyes still closed, and stretched out his left arm, knowing it would stick out of the curtain and maybe sock someone in the shoulder as they walked by. Patrick hoped it was Joe. That fucker stole all his granola bars despite Patrick hiding them as best he could. 

He did not make it out of the bunk curtain, however. Milliseconds after stretching, his unintentionally clenched fist hit something soft and a groan of pain was the response, entirely too close and loud to have come from the hall. 

Patrick froze. That--that was a male voice, he knew that much. Who the fuck decided to crash in _his_ bunk? If Brendon got drunk and passed out in Fall Out Boy’s bus (and Patrick’s bunk specifically) Patrick might actually kill him. It would explain the stuffiness, at least. 

He opened his eyes, mouth open to begin berating the skinny fucker for disrupting Patrick’s much needed sleep, but words died in his mouth as soon as his eyes informed his brain just what the fuck he was looking at.

Short black hair, an uneven joke of a morning beard, ragged sweatpants, no shirt, tattoos up and down both arms, and a sleepy, undignified grimace was what he was seeing. Patrick almost thought he was dreaming, wanted to believe it, but his arm was still stinging from hitting the wall and the man cracked his eyes open in a halfhearted glare and smacked him lightly in the ribs. 

“Jesus,” the man muttered, rubbing his kind of unfairly gorgeous, whisky colored eyes, and heaving the kind of sigh someone heaved when they are ungraciously woken up by a punch to the stomach. “Babe, we have talked about waiting to stretch until you’re vertical.”

Babe? _Babe?_ Patrick had never seen this dude in his entire life, he was pretty sure he would _know_ if he’d seen a man this hot before, let alone seeing him in _Patrick’s bunk_ , so he most certainly was not this man’s _babe_.

Patrick did the only logical thing he could think of to do in this slowly-growing, horrendously crazy moment. 

He shoved the stranger hard, out of his bunk and into a heap on the bus floor.

“What the fuck?” the man yelped, sounding pained. “I am way too old to do that anymore. You’re supposed to use your words if you’re angry with me now, remember?”

Patrick clambered out of his bunk, panic making his heart beat fast. He stumbled to the curtain that separated the bunks from the front lounge and stuck his head through. 

“Andy?” he called, panicking a little. “Joe? I think I’m about to be murdered!”

“Could you maybe be less dramatic?” the stranger asked irritably from behind Patrick. Patrick turned around fearfully, watching the man pick himself up and dust himself off before shooting Patrick a dirty look, the kind Patrick knew immediately was something perfected over years. It had that air about it. “What is your problem this morning, Patrick?”

Patrick pointed one shaking finger at the man as he backed up, putting space between him and the stranger _from his bed_. 

“How the fuck do you know my name?” he asked, voice sleep-rough and terrified. He knew he didn’t inspire much confidence and authority on a good day, and this day was quickly becoming apparent that it was not going to be a good day. He could only hope the man would keep his distance. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man folded his arms, narrowing his eyes at Patrick like he was fed up. 

“It’s too early for this shit, Patrick,” he snapped testily. “Stop being a dick, you’re not funny.”

Patrick stared for a long second, eyes wide, before stumbling back more, pushing through the curtain and running right into Andy. 

“I--there’s--he knows--I--” Patrick stammered, tripping over his words to try and get the story out. Andy frowned, hands on Patrick’s shoulders as if to ground him. Patrick’s heart was racing and he felt panicked, like he should run fast, off this bus and screaming back home, to Allie, where things made sense. 

“What’s wrong, Patrick?” Andy asked, concern in his voice, Patrick glanced behind him, eyes going even wider as the stranger stepped through, running a hand through his hair and frowning at Patrick like Patrick exhausted him. 

“I woke up and--and _he_ was in my bunk and he knows my name and he called me _babe_ ,” Patrick babbled, staring desperately at Andy for some sort of reassurance that he wouldn’t let some creepy stranger hurt Patrick. 

“I sure hope he was,” Andy said, frown growing. “Isn’t that, like, a common pet name for people disgustingly in love?”

Patrick stared at Andy, dumbfounded. He opened and shut his mouth several times, struggling to find the right words, before settling on a tried-and-true classic. 

“What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?” he demanded shakily. Andy moved his confused stare from him to the stranger, like--like he _knew_ the stranger or something, a theory only backed up when Andy addressed the man by name.

“Did he hit his head or something, Pete?” Andy asked. “Because this is too weird to be real.”

“I thought he was fucking with me,” Pete said, and Patrick could _feel_ his stare on the back of his head. “But he isn’t this good of an actor. Maybe we should take him to the ER.”

“Uh, _no_ ,” Patrick said, trying to pull away from Andy. “No, no, no. I’m not the weird one here, I’m not the stranger sleeping in someone’s bunk, I’m not the one calling a stranger babe, that’s all you. And you!” Patrick poked Andy in his chest. “You, how the hell do you know him at all? Why are you siding with a creep?”

“It’s rude to call your husband a creep,” Joe said, coming up from behind Andy and evidently missing half the conversation so far. Patrick’s jaw dropped and he quickly glanced behind him before staring back at Joe, lost. Joe seemed oblivious to the tension, just shot Pete a weird, unidentifiable look, before sipping his coffee and cocking his head. “What?”

“I think we have a problem here,” Andy said, and it was the first thing anyone had said all morning that made sense to Patrick. He nodded emphatically, poking Andy again for good measure. 

“I think we do, too,” he said hotly. “Look, I get you guys don’t like Allie, but pulling an elaborate, shitty prank first thing in the morning is a douche move.”

“Who the fuck is Allie?” all three said at once, in varying degrees of shock, incredulity, and a little anger. Patrick took a step back, looking between all three of them, a little less sure this was a prank. All three of them looked confused, almost as confused at Patrick felt. He took another step back, acutely aware that he was stepping closer to Pete. 

“Allie?” Patrick asked--more like _begged_ , begged for any of them to either drop the act or for Patrick to wake up from this horrible, horrible dream where nothing made sense and Patrick felt like he might die. “My wife?”

As opposed to the first time Patrick mentioned her, he was met with resounding silence this time. He had the undivided attention of all three men now, all of them staring at him like they could not figure out what the fuck to say. Again, Patrick could relate. Andy covered his face with his hand and groaned into them, like he’d like to scream but was too aware of the early hour and the fact they were on the bus to do so. 

“Please let this be a dream,” Pete whispered hoarsely. “Or even an act, Patrick, baby, I won’t be mad, please stop this. You’re scaring me.”

“I am not your babe!” Patrick said, voice cracking in a little hysteria. “I am married, I am none of your _babes_ , we are not even a side fling, let alone husbands, and I would like this all to end. Now, please.”

“I think we should take him to the ER,” Joe said, as if Patrick had said nothing. “Maybe he did hit his head. Or maybe it’s a brain tumor.”

“Don’t say that,” Pete said, sounding strangled. “Don’t--don’t jinx us like this, it’s something simple, they can fix it quick.”

“Are any of you listening?” Patrick demanded, to what seemed like no avail. “There is nothing wrong with me. There’s something wrong with _you_ , all of you. I’m not the one who needs a doctor, I know who I am.”

“What’s more likely, Trick?” Andy asked, sounding strained. “You’re right and three people are wrong? Or three people are right and somehow, some way, you are wrong?”

“I am not wrong!” Patrick insisted, and Pete made a noise that sounded a little like despair behind him. Andy looked over Patrick’s shoulder, exchanging a look with Pete that Patrick could not read.

“Okay,” Andy said, voice making it clear this was a final decision. “It’s time for the ER.”

\----

Despite Patrick’s threats, he ultimately agreed to the ER visit. He knew the doctors would find nothing wrong with him, and it would prove to all three of them that he was right. He was fine. 

He made a mental note to text Allie, to tell her what was happening and get her advice, because this was so fucking strange. There had to be an explanation, but it was so fucking strange that he really needed his wife’s opinion. 

He dug out his phone as they waited, earning a sidelong glance from Joe. 

“Whatcha doing?” he asked, in a shitty display of innocence. Patrick glared at him. 

“I’m texting Allie,” he said shortly. “My wife, remember?”

“I remember your wedding, alright,” Joe said, nodding. “Unfortunate that everyone remembers your wedding to Pete and none of us know who Allie is.”

“This has to stop,” Patrick said desperately. “I can’t handle this anymore, Joe.”

“It will,” Joe said, sounding like he believed it. “The doctor will get you all fixed up, they’ll figure it out. It’s amnesia or something.”

“If it’s amnesia, why do I remember you?” Patrick challenged. “Or Andy? Or Brendon? Or _Save Rock and Roll_? How can it be amnesia if I remember all of that?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said uncomfortably. “But that’s what the doctor is for.”

Patrick huffed and looked back down at his phone. His usual passcode unlocked it--amnesia his _ass_ \--and he opened up his messages, ready to find his wife’s usual loving texts. 

His breath stopped in his chest like he’d been hit by a fucking train, eyes going wide. He felt dizzy all at once, dizzy and dumbfounded as he stared at his phone with wide eyes and a shaking grip. 

Where he expected to find a long chain of messages from Allie, he found a text exchange between himself and _pete <3 _ instead. He looked up, looked around, but Andy and Pete were deep in discussion, heads close together, and Joe was occupied with his own phone. Patrick looked back down, trying to start breathing again. 

Okay. Okay, so it must be a prank, a long, drawn out prank, and he had no idea why they were taking this so far but it was the only explanation. This was a prank and Patrick was never going to forgive them. 

He didn’t open the texts between he and “Pete”, knowing they were all fiction, and opened up his photos instead. He was confident this was proof, all the proof he needed to prove to the doctor that he was fine and they were jerks. Assholes. Dicks, the lot of them. 

The first picture that popped up was him and “Pete”, kissing, looking for all the world like they were the happiest people on Earth. 

Patrick locked his phone and shoved it in his pocket with more force than he needed, hands shaking, mouth dry and heart fluttering. He stared straight ahead, almost unseeing. 

Patrick could not handle this anymore. He needed the doctor to tell them all off for playing Patrick like this. It was cruel, really, downright awful. The thought of his best friends doing this to him, just when they came back from hiatus--it made him regret coming back. 

“Patrick Stump?” a nurse called, and all three stood with Patrick. He glared at them and shook his head. 

“I’m going alone,” he said coldly. “You’ve done enough.”

“Trick--” Pete said, but Patrick shot him a nasty look. 

“You’re a special kind of asshole,” he said. “Crawling into someone’s bunk while they’re asleep? No thanks. I’m not your husband.”

He left without another word, following the nurse and leaving them behind. The walk down the hall kind of cleared his head--he wouldn’t even bring up the phone. No point. He would just let the doctor run whatever tests were needed and in the end, when everything came back normal, then--then he would show them. 

What complete assholes. Patrick was quitting the band, fuck them. 

“Well, Mr. Stump-Wentz,” the doctor said, and Patrick jumped a little. He didn’t realize the doctor had even come in the room. He stood, clasping his hands in front of him and waiting expectantly. The doctor sanitized his hands and gestured towards the gurney, pulling up a stood to sit across from him. “So I reviewed your MRI results. You show a clear mental decline consistent with some form of amnesia. It’s an odd case--recognizing your friends and knowing your job, but your entire marriage is blank.”

“I’m not married to him,” Patrick said hoarsely. The doctor sighed. 

“You are married to him,” he said. “He produced your marriage certificate. I am not sure who Allie is, but all your friends agree that they’ve never heard of her. Tell me more about her.”

“We live in LA together,” Patrick said slowly. “We’ve been married for six years. I’ve loved her forever. I have no idea what’s happening. I have never seen Pete before in my life. What’s happening to me?”

“We’ll figure it out,” the doctor promised. 

Patrick didn’t really believe him. 

\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you saying,” Pete said, interrupting what was sure to be an entertaining episode of the Trohley Show, but not one he was eager to follow at the moment. “Are you saying that maybe I pissed someone off and they’re getting back at me? Like--like magic?”
> 
> “Well,” Joe said. 
> 
> “So different dimensions is a bullshit theory, but somehow magic isn’t?” Pete continued, a little hysterically. “What do you suggest as the solution? A witch hunt?”
> 
> “Now you’ve done it,” Andy muttered. Pete ignored him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm in awe at the response to this! thank you so much for reading/commenting/kudos-ing. it is much appreciated!

Very few things set Pete off anymore, not as a mature, dignified version of the hot emo mess the tabloids loved. He was far less eager to please and far more willing to bend a little, or a lot, depending on the situation. He had to be, that was how coparenting worked, not to mention that the only thing keeping Joe in the band was a willingness to give up control.

Pete had perfected his laid back attitude, that sort of _je ne sais quoi_ air that led people to believe he was a whole, real adult, even though Patrick was the more adult of the pair by far. 

Pete had left the straightener, eyeliner, and manic breakdowns in 2009 and, in 2013, he was pretty proud of how far he’d come. 

Figured it would be torpedoed like a German U-boat at the end of World War Two, faster than his sluggish, tour-created, sleep deprived mind could handle. 

“I am married to him,” Pete said slowly, like he was a record stuck on one track and repeating it over and over, getting more and more distorted with every turn. “I _am_ married to him. I am. I’m--”

“Pete,” Andy said, remarkably calmly for someone who just witnessed one of his best friends completely forget about his entire marriage and another subsequently have a complete nervous breakdown over it. “Yes. You are married to Patrick. You did not wake up in some alternate dimension where you are not married to Patrick. Look at your certificate. You can’t read in a dream, so that’s out. What does it say?”

“It says I’m married to Patrick,” Pete said numbly. “Tomorrow is our anniversary. Oh God. What if I never get him back. What if this is punishment for all those years of me being an asshole. What if God is up there, laughing at me--”

“Pete,” Andy said again, grabbing Pete’s arm and dragging him down to the chair again after he’d stood, glaring at the ceiling like he was ready to personally challenge God to a fight. “You’re losing it. Drink this.”

He thrust a cup of weak, watery coffee into Pete’s hands and guided it to his mouth, like he was feeding a bottle to a fussy baby. Pete sputtered at the tepid, lukewarm, bitter liquid, but eventually took a sip. 

“And here we see the mother drummer feeding her baby bassist,” Joe said from behind Andy. Andy didn’t bother turning to look at him, just shot him the finger blindly and nudging Pete to drink more. “My dude, he is forty.” 

“Thirty four,” Pete said, voice garbled by the coffee. Andy nudged Pete again. 

“I’m trying to stop him from breaking down completely,” Andy said firmly. “Because his husband is God knows where now, possibly having another MRI, possibly with some weird brain tumor, and I feel like you’re the only one of us not freaking out right now.”

“I’m still convinced I’m dreaming,” Joe said, collapsing into the chair beside Pete, jostling him and making the coffee slosh out of the cup and down Pete’s tattered MCR shirt. Joe didn’t seem to notice, even as Pete halfheartedly dabbed it with the end of Joe’s shirt. Joe dropped an arm around Pete’s back and squeezed him. “It’s alright, Pete. Look, he was normal last night. It’s just, like, maybe a hallucination or something, but I really doubt a brain tumor would cause such night and day symptoms.”

“According to Google,” Pete began, still half-buried in the coffee cup.

“Nope,” Andy said. “You’re not allowed to use Google right now. Google thinks everything is cancer. Remember how I looked up proper blister care and it said I should go to the ER because it might be skin cancer?”

“It might have been,” Pete said, eyes unfocused on the tile floor. Andy snapped his fingers in front of Pete’s face, making him jump and spill more coffee down his shirt. This time, Pete barely noticed. 

“It was a blister,” Andy said calmly. “From new drumsticks. Patrick doesn’t have _cancer,_ there is another explanation for this.”

“I’d love to hear it,” Joe said, and Andy glared at him. 

“Not helping,” he said irritably, before turning back to Pete, that same annoying gentleness back on his face, like Pete was a toddler with, like, a knife and Andy needed to carefully take it away. “Patrick’s gonna be fine.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Pete said mournfully. “He really doesn’t know who I am, Patrick would never pretend this long, he knows it would hurt me. How the hell does he not remember me?”

“That’s what the doctor is for,” Andy said. “Because we don’t know. Sit back down, they won’t let you go back without Patrick’s permission.”

“I’m his power of attorney,” Pete said, trying to stand again. “They have to let me back.”

“He’s not incapacitated, so he can make his own decisions,” Joe said, helping Andy drag Pete down despite his fairly weak struggles. Pete huffed, slumping over. He just--it killed him to not know, alright? It killed him to sit in this sterile waiting room, styrofoam cup of bad hospital coffee half-filled in his hand, staring at the doors his _husband_ had walked through without him.

“Great,” Joe said. “He’s crying.”

“Will you please try and understand the gravity of the situation?” Andy hissed, rubbing Pete’s shoulder halfheartedly. The whole conversation sounded distant to Pete, like he was picking it up on an illicit radio through static, trying not to get caught. “Patrick is back there, you know.”

“Listen,” Joe said, a little hotly. “I am trying to be level headed here. I am not you. If I think to much about this, I might end up like him.”

Pete blinked at the finger Joe thrust in his direction. He was pretty sure he should resent that, but there wasn’t much room in his body for any emotion but sheer, unbridled terror. Currently, the absolute only thing occupying his mind was _what if Patrick never remembers me?_

And, yeah, now he was crying, hunched over and crying, because _fuck_ , just when he thought he and Patrick had been through it all, this. It was he and Patrick against the world, they’d made it through the storm and to the other side, they had nothing to worry about. But then again. Who could have even predicted this?

“Is this the way you thought today would go?” Joe asked, almost casually, making Pete want to strangle him and find a new best friend. “Did you even think that this could be a possibility?”

“No,” Pete said, a spark of something hot in his voice, the first emotion since confusion and heartbreak he’d felt since Patrick had hit him with _who the fuck are you?_. He narrowed his eyes at Joe, who held his hands up defensively, but it was too late. Pete was ready now. “For some reason I did not think I’d wake up to have my husband, one of my best friends for like fifteen years, not fucking recognize me. He’s twenty nine, not eighty, so I didn’t think _Alzheimer’s_ was something I had to worry about.”

“I don’t think it’s that,” Andy interjected. “It has to be something else.”

“Yeah,” Joe added. “Who’d you piss off?”

That made Pete pause. He frowned at Joe, mind still half-focused on his semi-formed insult, but that was such a bizzare question it derailed him halfway through.

“What?” Andy asked, apparently on the same wavelength as Pete at the moment. “Joe, what the hell are you on?”

“Nothing,” Joe said defensively. “But when you’ve exhausted other options, whatever remains must be the truth. Right?”

“Don’t you bastardize Star Trek lines at me,” Andy said. “That does not count as an _explanation_ , what’s wrong with you?”

“Are you saying,” Pete said, interrupting what was sure to be an entertaining episode of the Trohley Show, but not one he was eager to follow at the moment. “Are you saying that maybe I pissed someone off and they’re getting back at me? Like--like magic?”

“Well,” Joe said. 

“So different dimensions is a bullshit theory, but somehow magic isn’t?” Pete continued, a little hysterically. “What do you suggest as the solution? A witch hunt?”

“Now you’ve done it,” Andy muttered. Pete ignored him. 

“I’m just saying, it’s a possibility,” Joe said weakly, ignoring the _abort, abort_ head shake that Andy was giving him. “Look, I’m just saying, not much is making sense here. Is it really so far fetched to try and find another solution?”

The last part was said defensively, complete with Joe crossing his arms like a defiant twelve year old, but it did make Pete pause. Nothing much did make sense about this situation, it was true. The more Pete considered it, the more he realized that maybe magic was kind of a good idea. Unfortunately.

“Mr. Stump-Wentz?” a nurse called, and Pete shot up so fast the leftover coffee flew out of his cup in the same kind of catastrophic arc that lava makes as it explodes from a volcano. Pete paid it no mind, just crumpled the styrofoam and tossed it onto the splatter of coffee across the white tile, ducking out of the way of the drips coming off the ceiling and walking purposefully towards the nurse. 

“No, it’s fine, we’ll clean up here,” Andy called, sounding annoyed. 

“Great, thanks,” Pete called back before following the nurse through the doors and into a fairly busy ER hallway. The nurse didn’t say much, just walked briskly down the hall and into a small office that looked….disturbingly like a bad-news room. Pete was pretty sure he’d seen this exact room in like, three soap operas off the top of his head. 

Great.

Waiting for him was what looked like a doctor, if the white coat and stethoscope were anything to go by. He had greying hair and a clean shaven, no-nonsense kind of face that reminded Pete of his father a little. Pete gulped down air and tried to stay calm. 

“Well, Mr. Stump-Wentz,” the doctor said. 

“Pete,” Pete supplied numbly. The doctor nodded. 

“I wish I had a clear answer for you,” the doctor said, and Pete’s heart sank. “All we know is there is something going on in his brain. In the part of the brain that controls memory, there is strange activity, similar to amnesia, but nothing I’ve seen before. Amnesia isn’t a good enough answer, because he remembers everything but you.”

“So he--he like, has Alzheimer’s?” Pete asked, voice hoarse. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair as he sank into it, eyes wide and basically unseeing. The doctor--to Pete’s relief--shook his head. 

“No, he definitely does not have that,” he said. “So you can rest easy on that front. Unfortunately, we have no idea what he does have. All we know is that he’s not making this up. He’s not faking. He really, genuinely believes himself to be married to a girl named Allie. And he really doesn’t know who you are at all.”

Pete felt very abruptly like he was going to faint.

\----

“So, like,” Joe said for the fifteenth time, clearly trying and failing to make sense of what Pete told him. “So he really doesn’t know.”

“Yes, Trohman, he really doesn’t know,” Pete snapped impatiently, scrubbing his hands across his face and pushing himself to his feet to begin pacing the length of the bus. “He really doesn’t know and they really don’t know how to fix him and I’m never getting my fucking husband back.”

“Woah,” Andy said, grabbing Pete’s arm on his sixth time pacing past Andy. “Settle, boy. They don’t know _yet_. They could figure it out. They _will_ figure it out. But in the meantime--let’s help them.”

“How?” Pete said, an edge of desperation he couldn’t hide in his voice. “How can we _possibly_ help a team of doctors?”

“We can start with Allie,” Joe piped up. Pete and Andy turned to look at him, fixing him with the same intense stare. Years of experience with this exact stare were credited with why Joe didn’t even flinch. “Well, he keeps going on about her. Is she a real person? Is she in his phone? Is she a delusion? It’s a start.”

“You’re right,” Pete breathed. “Goddamn, you’re right. Allie. Who the fuck is Allie?”

“That was a song on _Soul Punk_ ,” Andy pointed out. “Which leads me to believe she isn’t real. Maybe whatever caused this amnesia latched onto a memory of _Soul Punk_ and got stuck in his head?”

“Why, though?” Pete asked, running a hand through his hair. “Like, I know we should probably be asking _Patrick_ about this, but it looks like he’ll probably be uncooperative.”

“I’ll be cooperative,” Patrick said, making Pete jump and whirl around so fast he nearly lost balance. Whatever was on Pete’s face, whatever emotion Pete couldn’t hide, clearly didn’t impress Patrick much, because his lips were curling in the same haughty sneer he wore whenever he had to interact with something he didn’t like. “I can’t promise you’ll like my answers, but I’ll give them.”

“Who’s Allie?” Joe said instantly, and Andy punched him hard in the arm. Patrick narrowed his eyes and folded his arms, sticking his chin up almost defiantly. 

“I told you,” he said shortly. “She’s my wife. No weird, fake marriage certificate to a stranger is going to change my real marriage.”

“That’s a song on _Soul Punk_ ,” Pete said quietly. Patrick fixed him with a blank stare. “ _Soul Punk_? Your album?”

“I’m very aware of what my album is called,” Patrick said coldly. “If it hadn’t tanked so hard, I’d return to it in a heartbeat, far away from you. What’s your point?”

“It’s just interesting how your wife’s name is the same as a song on your album,” Pete said weakly, and Patrick rolled his eyes. 

“Yes,” he said, in that precise _Patrick_ way, condescending like a know-it-all to the classroom idiot. “It’s just _so weird_ how I have a song on my album for my wife.”

“ _Allie_ isn’t a very flattering song, though,” Joe said, and Patrick visibly faltered, opening his mouth for a long moment before shutting it and huffing out a breath. Pete perked up a tiny bit--for a moment, for a brief, fleeting moment, the weird shields in Patrick’s eyes cracked, broke, opened. It was just the slightest moment, but--it was there. Pete saw it.

Patrick didn’t answer, choosing to huff and unfold his arms only to put his hands on his hips, cocking one out like a prissy A-list actor, shields firmly back in place.

“Well,” Andy said, in a very _so, this is awkward_ voice. “Can you tell us any more about her?”

“What do you want to know?” Patrick shot back, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t believe she was real.”

“We’re just very confused, Patrick,” Andy said gently. “And we know you must be, too, so help. Help us find what’s real so we can stop living in this weird in-between. Okay?”

Patrick held Andy’s gaze for a long moment before sighing, shoulders going down and hands falling from his hips. 

“Fine,” he said. “I answer one, you answer one. Okay?”

“Okay,” Andy said agreeably, dragging Pete down to sit on the couch and gesturing for Patrick to take the couch opposite. “Okay. So. Allie.”

“My wife,” supplied Patrick, evidently unaware that every time that phrase left his mouth, Pete felt it like a gunshot to the chest.

“Yes,” Andy said, but he still sounded doubtful. “Tell us about her. Where did you meet? How long have you been married? Stuff like that.”

Pete wasn’t entirely sure what Andy’s endgame was, other than making Pete flinch at every detail, but Patrick seemed more inclined to listen to Andy over Pete, so he kept silent. 

A low, sort of mournful ache started up right under his sternum, reminding him: Patrick was listening to Andy because he knew Andy. Patrick did not currently know Pete. He might never know Pete again. 

“We...met…” Patrick began, brow furrowing like he was trying desperately to remember, like what he was trying to remember was just out of reach, blocked by something he couldn’t see. His brow furrowed further until, all at once, it looked like a light went off in his eyes, a weird glaze settled across his face, expression unfocused, like he’d been...possessed or something. Which just made Pete feel sicker. “We met in 2001. We’ve been together seventeen years. We’ve been married for six. I love her so much.”

All Pete could think was _no, the fuck you don’t_ because Patrick wasn’t even fucking _legal_ in 2001, but it almost made Pete feel a little better. This couldn’t be real. It could not be some real, twisted, alternate reality because this was _impossible_.

A glance with Joe told Pete he’d come to the exact same conclusion, and Pete didn’t need to look at Andy to know he was on the same page. This wasn’t real. Pete didn’t know what it was, but it was just. Not. Real.

“Your turn,” Patrick said. He pointed one finger at Pete without looking at him. “Who is he? Everyone says he’s my husband, but besides that. Who the hell is he?”

“My name--” Pete began, but Patrick cut him off. 

“I want to hear it from Andy,” he said coldly, and Pete forced himself to nod, shut his mouth, sit back. 

“This is Pete,” Andy said gently. “Pete Wentz. You met when you joined the band in 2001. You’ve been married for a year, together for about three before that. He plays bass for us? He’s the lyrics, you’re the music? Do you remember any of this?”

Again, something flickered in Patrick’s eyes, and Patrick winced, pressing a hand to his temple and massaging. It took everything in Pete to keep himself from running to Patrick’s side. He was pretty confident he wouldn’t be welcomed there.

Before Patrick could answer, before he could even open his eyes again, there was a knock at the door. Andy and Pete exchanged a look and, after a long moment, Joe stood, crossing to the bus door and opening it. 

“Who are you?” Joe asked, confused. Patrick stood, opening his eyes and standing on his toes to peer over Joe’s shoulder. All at once, he broke into that dazzling Patrick grin, the one Pete swore made birds sing and flowers grow, the one that could give the sun a run for its money.

Pete stood, too, stumbling to the door to take a look for himself. He frowned--it was a woman, maybe Patrick’s age, with shoulder-length brown hair, hazel eyes, hands on her hips, a scowl on her face. Pete opened his mouth to repeat Joe’s question, but was beat to the punch by Patrick.

“Allie!” he said, sounding thrilled, and Pete’s stomach _dropped_.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he asked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick was fucking relieved to see Allie standing there. It felt like a flood of emotion, almost like someone took his brain and dumped dopamine all over it. Allie was here. Allie was here and she was real and not a figment of Patrick’s imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for continuing to stick with me! for those of you wondering when it's going to improve for poor pete and patrick: sometimes before it gets better, the darkness gets bigger. cheers.

Patrick was fucking _relieved_ to see Allie standing there. It felt like a flood of emotion, almost like someone took his brain and dumped dopamine all over it. Allie was here. Allie was _here_ and she was _real_ and not a figment of Patrick’s imagination.

Andy and Pete were sputtering behind him but Patrick ignored them both, pushing the bus door all the way open and stumbling out to throw his arms around Allie. 

God, she was _perfect_. The guys were crazy, simply _insane_ to believe he would choose Pete, his woefully semi-inadequate (albeit hot) alleged husband, over a woman so perfect Patrick mostly stared at her in awe. She smiled gently at him, though her eyes were sharp like she knew what had happened already. The hospital must have called her, it made sense. He would want to know if she somehow woke up in a world that believed she wasn’t married to him.

“She’s fucking real?” someone asked incredulously from the bus. Patrick was pretty sure it was Joe but he didn’t really care. All his attention was on Allie. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered. “Things have been so insane.”

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Allie said, voice like music the same way it always was. Allie’s voice was why Patrick fell in love with music. It was lilting and mesmerizing, like magic.

“You’re not in my phone anymore,” Patrick mumbled. “Everything is so strange, I don’t know what’s happening.”

Allie cocked her head, eyes fixed on him for a long moment before she looked over his shoulder. Patrick had no idea what the guys were doing, but he guessed she didn’t like it, not if the expression on her face said anything.

“I’m here now,” Allie said, voice cold, still glaring daggers at the bus. “I’ll fix it.”

“You fix everything.”

Patrick didn’t even realize he was speaking, the words just came naturally, because they were true. Allie did fix everything, she always had right from the beginning. Like...like…

Patrick mentally stumbled, like he’d hit a wall. He tried to remember, as hard as he could but he couldn’t. It was blank. Suddenly and completely blank. He knew he knew the answer but it just wasn’t coming, like his tongue was tied or he really did have some sort of amnesia.

He tried to ignore it. He was just still shaken up from the hospital. He knew Allie was amazing. He knew she could solve any problem without a sweat. He would be nothing without her. 

He could hardly spare a thought to the guys in the bus, all his attention was on Allie. Everything else was behind a curtain Patrick couldn’t be bothered to open. 

“Alright,” someone--Andy, Patrick was pretty sure it was Andy--said. “Alright, we need to talk.”

“Talk about what?” Allie asked hotly. Patrick wanted to reassure her but he knew they hated her, so they deserved her wrath. They extra deserved it for whatever the hell they were putting him through. “About why you removed me from his phone and kept him from answering? Don’t lie, that’s exactly the kind of shit you’d pull.”

“Lady,” Andy said. “We have no idea who you are.”

“Bullshit,” Allie sneered. “You’re goddamn liars, all of you. Sitting up on lying thrones, thinking you’re the kings of the world.”

“I am the King of the World,” Pete said, and Patrick spent a minute imagining how it would feel to straight up deck Pete right in his stupidly attractive face. 

“Not helping,” Andy said in an undertone, just as Allie spoke up in a kind of panicked, desperate voice.

“Who are you?” she demanded, sounding anxious and scared. “I have never seen you before, who are you?”

“Woah, calm down,” Joe said, sounding concerned. Patrick finally turned to check out the scene behind him: Joe, brow furrowed. Pete, looking between Patrick and Allie like he had no words left to speak, which seemed to be a feat in itself. Andy, looking frighteningly thoughtful. 

Patrick glanced back at Allie, hoping against hope she had the answers. Like she always did. It was repeating in his head like a song on shuffle Patrick couldn’t figure out how to turn off. Allie knew everything. He should trust her completely. 

If only he remembered how he knew this. He was beginning to feel panicky, trapped, in a mind that wasn’t working. He wanted to go home, to go back to normal.

“Calm down?” Allie demanded. “One of you better explain this whole situation to me before I take Patrick home, fuck your reunion.”

“Patrick is a grown man,” Andy said, kind of reasonably, actually, but Allie just huffed. 

“He’s _my_ husband,” she said, and a wave of what felt like an almost foreign emotion swept over Patrick at those words--her husband, he was her husband, that was right. He was _hers_. There was nothing they could do about it, no matter how much they wanted to believe Allie wasn’t real. 

“Alright, lady,” Joe said, sounding annoyed. “Let’s not get creepy possessive here. Let’s talk like adults. We are all adults, right?”

“I don’t know,” Allie said darkly, wrapping an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and squeezing. “Are you an adult?”

“Okay,” Andy said loudly. “Before we start some kind of street brawl, let’s take this inside the bus and try to work out what the fuck is going on.”

“Don’t swear in front of Patrick,” Allie ordered. 

_Yeah_ Patrick agreed, not even sure why he was agreeing. _I don’t like swearing._

Wait, what?

“Wait, what?” Andy echoed, staring Allie down like she was a fascinating but potentially deadly specimen from Mars. “Did you just tell me not to swear in front of Patrick? A grown man? My best friend of like ten years? Have you not listened to _Save Rock and Roll_?

“I’ve listened to it,” Allie huffed. “Doesn’t mean I like it. Watch your mouth.”

Andy looked seconds away from spontaneously combusting. Apparently incapable of further speech, he turned walking back onto the bus, evidently expecting everyone else to follow. Patrick would, if only because he had absolutely no idea what to do next. Allie looked like she didn’t like it, her grip on Patrick’s hand almost painfully tight, but she didn’t say anything, lips in a thin line. 

Patrick took a step towards the bus and Allie pulled him back, glaring daggers at Pete as if she knew him or something. Which was strange--if Patrick didn’t know Pete, how the hell could Allie know him? 

Once Pete had stepped into the bus, Allie relented a bit, not letting go of Patrick but also not fighting it as he walked with her towards the bus. 

“I don’t like this,” Allie said unhappily. Patrick nodded. He didn’t either, but this whole thing was so goddamn crazy it just--seemed like a bad dream. Patrick really wanted to wake up now. 

\----

“Okay, so,” Andy began, as Allie perched on the edge of the couch, dragging Patrick to sit in her lap. Patrick saw nothing wrong with this: Pete, on the other hand, made a strangled sound, face red, hands clenched on his lap. Patrick was getting real tired of him. “So you’re Allie.”

“I believe we’ve established that,” Allie said coldly, wrapping her arms around Patrick’s hips as if to keep him there. She was probably just scared. “What we haven’t established is what is going on. So?”

“So,” Andy said, unaffected. “So Patrick woke up and didn’t know who Pete was.”

“ _I_ don’t know who _Pete_ is,” Allie said darkly, sending another glare Pete’s way. Pete glared right back, openly hostile even as Joe laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“Pete is our bass player,” Andy said calmly. “And our lyricist and Patrick’s husband.”

“Husband?” Allie all but shrieked, and Patrick tried to say something reassuring, anything, but she seemed beyond reason. Her nails were kind of digging into his skin under his shirt and he tried to squirm a little bit but she just clamped down harder, like an alligator with its prey in its jaws. 

Belatedly, Patrick thought _that’s not a nice thing to say about your wife_ and tried to shake off the weird, intrusive feelings. He loved Allie. He loved everything about her, she was just scared. That was all. 

“Yes,” Pete said shortly, looking like he was ready to physically separate Patrick and Allie, like Joe’s restraining hand on his shoulder was all that was stopping him. “And would you ease up? You’re hurting him.”

“He hasn’t said anything,” Allie said shortly, tightening her grip. 

“He doesn’t need to,” Pete insisted. “Read his body language. That should be easy enough, if you really are his _wife_.”

Pete said _wife_ derisively, like it was a joke or a dirty word, like it burned his mouth every time he said it. His eyes were hard and laser focused on Allie, a sort of determined air about him that Patrick would find insanely attractive if he wasn’t _married_.

“He’s fine,” Allie said, and Patrick felt a brief spike of fear, a desire to squirm away from her, but he shut it down quick. It was just the _situation_. 

Out of nowhere, like maybe God was sensing Patrick was truly close to losing it, the image of Allie in her wedding dress surfaced in his brain, the happy, soaring memory of seeing her walk down the aisle to him so fresh it could have happened yesterday. Everything else in his mind was obscured by the beautiful song they danced to, how radiant Allie looked. 

“Earth to Patrick,” Andy said, and Patrick jerked back to the present, flailing so much he almost fell from Allie’s lap. Allie saved him though, like she always did, and Patrick looked up at Andy with a frown. “You looked like you were on a whole other planet mentally.”

The words were pointed but Patrick guessed he could concede that ground. The memories of their wedding day had been pretty intense. He swallowed, looking at Allie for some reassurance, before forcing himself to face his bandmates again.

“Yes?” he managed to ask, sounding halfway composed, too, which was a feat in itself. He mostly felt ready to vomit. 

“So, let’s just walk through what happened since you woke up,” Andy asked, pretty reasonably, but Patrick’s brain was stuck on the fact that it had only been a _day_. A day since he woke up and everyone had gone crazy. A day since he woke up with a stranger--albeit a handsome one--in his bunk, insisting they were married. 

Only a day. 

“I woke up,” Patrick said, hoping his voice stayed even, calm, unaffected despite how he was quickly falling to pieces inside. “With him in my bunk--” he pointed at Pete, not able to bring himself to even say Pete’s name-- “And you guys all insisting we were married. None of you remembered Allie. I thought you were playing an elaborate prank on me and if I agreed to go to the ER you would drop it.”

“Thought?”

Patrick jerked in surprise as Pete spoke, nearly falling again. Allie’s grip tightened and Patrick tried to stay calm. Panicking never did him any good, that was what--what--

_Someone_ had told him that at some point, repeating it in varying tones, from amused to frustrated, over and over for years. Someone had. Who was it?

The harder Patrick tried to think about it, the fuzzier his memory got, until it was like trying to watch a television program through static without glasses. He forced himself to stop, to take a deep breath, to swallow past his bone-dry mouth. To not panic. 

“Yes,” Patrick said belatedly, and Allie went stiff. “Thought. Why?”

“Past tense,” Pete said softly, something like hope in his eyes for the first time. “Past tense. You know something’s wrong.”

Before Patrick could even open his mouth, Allie pushed him onto the couch next to her and stood, hands clenched into fists, face red, mouth a hard line. 

“You!” she snarled, spit flying from her mouth like venom from one of those snakes that can spray venom fifty feet or something. It landed on Pete’s face, but he barely reacted, wiping it away while fixing Allie with a steel-like glare. Patrick had to remind himself that Allie was, in fact, a human woman, and thus could not spit venom. It was hard, especially seeing her this angry. 

He felt sort of illogically like this was his fault, even though he knew it wasn’t, even though he didn’t ask for this messed up shit to happen. All of him wanted to go back to bed and pray everything would wake up normal. 

“Me,” Pete agreed harshly, not looking away from Allie for a second. “I’m Patrick’s husband. I will always be Patrick’s husband. You’re the person who doesn’t belong here. You’re a _Soul Punk_ song come to life and I swear to everyone standing in this bus that I am going to fucking figure out what happened.”

“How could _you_ be Patrick’s husband when Patrick is _my_ husband?” Allie sneered, lips curling like the words tasted bitter and disgusting in her mouth. Patrick bet they did. He tried to think about how he would feel if everyone insisted Allie was married to someone he’d never met and his chest hurt. That was his wife. He was her husband. 

“Easy,” Pete snapped. “I married him. I got the certificate right here. Where’s yours?”

“I didn’t think I had to bring it,” Allie retorted. “Because I didn’t think everyone would be rushing to tell Patrick lies, tell him bullshit about him be married to you, of all people. I don’t even know you.”

“I don’t need to know you to know you’re full of shit,” Pete snarled. “I’ve known Patrick since he was seventeen years old.”

“So have I,” Allie snapped. “Since _Take This To Your Grave._ ”

The stunned silence that followed her statement would have made a whisper seem impossibly loud, if anyone was whispering. But nobody was--everyone was dead quiet, staring at Allie like she’d grown three heads. Allie looked satisfied, like she’d hit a nerve, and looked at Patrick. 

Patrick nodded quickly, wanting to make sure she knew he was on _her_ side. They were _wrong_ and Patrick didn’t care how hard Pete was going to work to prove something that didn’t exist. Patrick was going to work harder. 

“This is _insane_ ,” Joe groaned, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Andy visibly shook himself, like a displeased cat plucked from a bath, and nudged Pete with his elbow.

“How the hell do you know _Take This To Your Grave_ but not know who I am?” Pete asked hoarsely, still staring at Allie like he couldn’t believe this was happening. “I played bass. Wait.” 

He lifted one finger, pointing it at Allie before seemingly switching thoughts and turning to Patrick. 

“Who plays bass?” he asked, voice cracking. “If you don’t know who I am, if you have never seen me before, but you still know our band and our music, tell me. Who plays bass if I don’t exist?”

Patrick’s mind went suddenly and completely blank, a Windows screensaver in real life, complete with a spinning rainbow of death. It was like his mind restarted itself spontaneously, wiping his head of whatever he had planned to answer to that. 

Who played bass for Fall Out Boy? Well, that was obvious. Of course that was obvious. The bass player was--was--

Allie closed her hand around Patrick’s wrist, comforting. She could always tell when he was upset. She knew everything about him. 

Everything. 

That much was clear even in his short-circuiting mind at the moment, and he tried to take a deep breath, to settle himself. 

“You, sweetheart,” Allie said softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead that made Pete make an interesting, furious noise. “You’re the bass player. Remember?”

“Oh yeah!” Patrick said, grinning at her, lying to make her happy. He didn’t remember. He had no clue. But he knew she would never, ever lie to him. She had to be telling the truth. She was the only one he could trust right now.

Whoever was doing this to him, to _them_ \--Allie would make them pay. 

He tried to take comfort in that. He would feel fine soon. 

Besides, now that he thought about it, it made sense. It was easier to sing and play bass at the same time than playing guitar, anyway. It made perfect logical sense, and where memories failed, logic would prevail.

“I don’t know what you’ve done,” Allie said, sounding hurt, furious, and scared all at once. “But you’ve really messed him up. If you’re not going to come clean and make this right, we will be going home.”

“ _No!_ ” Pete said, scrambling to his feet, clutching his hands together and looking alarmingly like a toddler who’d been told _it’s an early bedtime for you, buddy, no, no more cartoons, go brush your teeth_. “No, you can’t take him home, you can’t--”

“What Pete _means_ to say,” Andy said loudly, over Pete’s rambling pleas that seemed to be washing right over Allie. He rested a firm hand on Pete’s shoulder, as if to make him stay still--a useless endeavor if you asked Patrick--and addressed Allie directly, voice even and measured despite the panic on the face of Pete and Joe’s body language, which suggested Patrick was about to be kidnapped and hidden far away from Allie. “Is that Patrick signed a contract to finish this tour. If he leaves, he breaks that contract. And, no offense, man, but after _Soul Punk_ \--”

“I can’t,” Patrick said immediately, the pieces falling into place, memories returning slowly, the way brushstrokes come to life. “I can’t afford it, Allie, _we_ can’t afford to break the contract. I have to finish touring.”

“But--”

“He has to,” Joe cut in. “And, listen, maybe we can figure this thing out as we do, what do you think? Maybe some time will make everything alright, how does that sound?”

How that _sounded_ was like a first time babysitter talking to a child of about four who was about to make a scene at a grocery store, but Patrick let it go. He glanced at Allie, who was biting her lip, eyes darting from Andy, to Joe, to Pete. 

She looked back at Patrick and sighed, letting go of his wrist to grasp his hand almost possessively. 

“Fine,” she said, clearly unhappy. “Fine, he can finish the tour. But if you think I’m going home, you’re nuts.”

“Fine,” Andy said, sounding like it wasn’t actually. “Fine. But you can’t come to press stops or band meetings. You can ride on the bus, you can’t stay in hotels with us. Some of our dynamic has to be preserved, and besides. The label won’t pay for you. They wouldn’t pay for anyone’s spouse.”

“If _Pete_ can go, I can go,” Allie insisted, saying Pete’s name like it was a curse word. Andy was already shaking his head. “I can at least share Patrick’s hotel room.”

“No,” he said firmly. “As of this moment, Pete is a member of this band regardless of if you or Patrick remember him. As of this moment, despite who you say you are, none of us know you. No. Besides, we room double.”

Allie glared, jaw working as she gritted her teeth, grip tight on Patrick’s hand. 

“Fine,” she spat again. “Have your little tea parties or whatever. But I will solve this.”

“So will I,” Pete said venomously, and Andy shot him a clear warning look.

“Okay, great, we have a plan,” he said loudly. “Do we need to address anything else?”

“I don’t,” Allie said, grip tightening on Patrick’s wrist. She narrowed her eyes at Pete. “I want _him_ to stay far away from my Patrick.”

“ _Your_ Patrick?” Pete began, but Andy slapped a hand over his mouth. 

“Uh huh,” he said, clearly lying. “Uh huh, sure. It’s fine.”

It wasn’t. Nothing about this was _fine_ , but there wasn’t much else to do but nod and sit back, trying to ignore the growing tension on the bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com and available for angry messages.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think what he’s trying to say,” Andy said, coming in to save the day like he did every damn time, the bastard. “Is that you need to jog his memory. Maybe whatever fucked with his head can be erased if you remind him how much you love him. And, yeah, make him fall in love with you. Again.”
> 
> “How am I supposed to do that?” Pete asked, dropping his hand down to his side like a useless dead weight at his side. He felt kind of shell shocked, really, like every new thing was pushing him into a further state of disbelief. Was this how soldiers coming home from war felt? Was Pete pushing the metaphor a bit too thin? Possibly. 
> 
> “How did you do it the first time?” Joe cracked, and Andy smacked his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy father's day in the us! these idiots aren't fathers, but maybe they'll do. thanks for reading along!

Pete felt the sick sort of terror he used to associate with his nightmares all over him, a sort of cloud of heavy perfume clinging like a second skin. He itched with the desire to shower it away, as if he could shower away the knowledge that his husband was all but gone. 

“He’s not gone,” Joe said gently, in an undertone. Pete couldn’t rip his eyes off Patrick, across the lounge, on the couch and hip-to-hip with Allie. He felt sick but he couldn’t look away. “He’s not gone, he’s right there. We just have to solve this.”

“How the hell are we gonna solve this?” Pete moaned, shoulders slumping. “This is like Groundhog Day but terrible.”

“Groundhog Day had some dubious parts in it,” Andy pointed out. “She totally didn’t know he was using her.”

“Okay, so, that’s not the point here,” Joe said in an irritated voice. “Can we stick to helpful things, Andy?”

“Fresh out,” Andy said. “I’ve been mature up until now. I’m throwing my hands up. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Don’t cry, Pete,” Joe urged just as Pete felt tears prick the back of his eyes. Joe rubbed his shoulder in a clear attempt to be soothing and Pete blinked rapidly to avoid breaking down. He sucked in a deep, albeit shaky breath and finally managed to rip his gaze from that horrible scene and back to Joe.

“Do we have a gameplan?” he asked. His voice was rough and hollow, which was perfect considering he _felt_ rough and hollow right about now. He cleared his throat, rolling his shoulders back, trying to shake off some of the tension. A mostly useless endeavor, but hey. He tried. 

“Well,” Joe said, in a tone of voice Pete did not like at all. 

“Well?” he asked, when Joe didn’t continue. Joe looked deeply uncomfortable, looking in vain to Andy for support. Pete elbowed Joe, a little rougher than he usually did, and Joe swore. 

“Christ,” he snapped. “Fine. Just to warn you, it’s dumb.”

“Well, it is _your_ idea,” Andy snickered, and Joe glared at him.

“Not helping,” he reiterated, before turning back to Pete with a hesitant expression. “It’s not really an idea of what caused it, per say, more of an idea of how to maybe fix it.”

“How about you maybe get to the point,” Pete said, reaching the end of his rope. Joe sighed. 

“You make him fall in love with you,” Joe said. A long second of silence followed that before Pete lifted one finger to point across the lounge where Patrick and Allie were...canoodling.

“He’s already in love with me,” Pete said, an edge of hysteria he couldn’t help in his voice. “Somewhere, under whatever the hell is going on, he’s already in love with me, Trohman, so what is the _point_ \--”

“I think what he’s trying to say,” Andy said, coming in to save the day like he did every damn time, the bastard. “Is that you need to jog his memory. Maybe whatever fucked with his head can be erased if you remind him how much you love him. And, yeah, make him fall in love with you. Again.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Pete asked, dropping his hand down to his side like a useless dead weight at his side. He felt kind of shell shocked, really, like every new thing was pushing him into a further state of disbelief. Was this how soldiers coming home from war felt? Was Pete pushing the metaphor a bit too thin? Possibly. 

“How did you do it the first time?” Joe cracked, and Andy smacked his arm. 

“Now who isn’t helping?” he muttered and Joe scowled. Andy cleared his throat and looked back at Pete with a slightly strained expression. “Look. You said it yourself. Somewhere under all….that, he is still in love with you. You just gotta uncover it. Break the spell.”

“So we’re agreeing it’s a spell, then?” Pete asked, voice high pitched like he’d gone through reverse puberty. “None of this is real, I refuse to believe it.”

“We’re not going there again,” Andy said firmly, grabbing Pete’s shoulder and giving him a little shake. “Try and focus on what we need to do.”

“Break a spell,” Pete said. He felt a little hysterical, like life was spiraling out of his control, which he guessed wasn’t far from the truth. “Because spells are totally a thing and Patrick is under one. Who’s the witch, then?”

“We’ll figure that part out,” Andy said, in a tone clearly meant to be reassuring but landed around panicked instead. “Leave that to us.”

“I hate the sound of that,” Pete muttered. He glanced across the bus and abruptly, all at once, his heart shattered, shards splintering down and scraping white-hot lines of pain against the walls of his chest. He sucked in a deep breath but felt like he was suffocating, unable to even think straight. 

Patrick was kissing Allie, kissing her and looking so content Pete could hardly bear to look. It made this nightmare feel real, made him feel completely lost, the ring on his finger weighing him down in a blessing and a curse. The ring reminded him that he wasn’t crazy, that he was married to Patrick, but Allie’s existence and the look on Patrick’s face assured him that Patrick didn’t think he was crazy, either. 

Something happened. Something happened to make all this wrong, make it impossible to deal with, and Pete wanted so badly to fix it but watching the only person he’d ever really loved kiss someone else like they were his whole world made him feel defeated before he’d even begun. 

Pete choked on a sob and Andy grabbed his chin, physically steering Pete’s gaze away from Patrick and Allie and back onto Andy and Joe, both of them wearing deadly serious expressions. 

“That’s not right,” Andy said firmly. “That’s not right and we are going to help you fix this. I swear on my life.”

“I will die without Patrick,” Pete said honestly, and Joe choked on a sob eerily similar to Pete’s. He grabbed Pete’s shoulder, squeezing and shaking his head. 

“No,” he said. “I refuse. I refuse to lose you or Patrick, this has to have a solution. Believe me, I’ll find it.”

“I believe you,” Pete whispered, even though he really, really didn’t.

\-----

Turned out riding a bus with a complete fucking stranger constantly sucking face with _your husband_ sucked the sweatiest, grimiest set of balls Pete had ever experienced. Pete hated it. Pete hated it big time and sort of wanted to die but that would be _unproductive_ according to Andy, and also wouldn’t bring Patrick back, according to Joe. 

So Pete was stuck glowering from the sidelines as Patrick and Allie flitted around each other like a brand new pair of lovebirds firmly minted in the honeymoon stage, all while Pete’s wedding ring damn near burned through his finger whenever he caught a glimpse of it. 

Even worse was the way he sometimes caught Patrick staring, an unsure expression on his face until Allie always, _always_ grabbed his attention again. Fuck, did that hurt. All Pete wanted to do was stride across the bus to Patrick, grab him by his stupidly adorable cardigan, and kiss him breathless.

That, however, would likely only result in a throat punch and Pete was well acquainted with how hard Patrick could hit when presented with enough incentive. He figured an unwelcome kiss from a person Patrick perceived to be a stranger would be more than enough to land some serious damage. 

With a show tonight, it would be in Pete’s best interests to avoid any physical damage. 

“Speaking of,” Andy said, and Pete blinked back to reality, tearing his gaze away from the curtained-off bunks where he was doing his very best Superman impression. If he developed laser vision and burnt the curtain, he could go in and save Patrick, and maybe Patrick would be so swept away by Pete’s heroics--

“Speaking of what?” Pete asked, ending the daydream out of sheer self preservation. “Bodily harm?”

“No,” Andy said, then made a face. “Well, yes, but no.”

“You are the most infuriating person I have ever met,” Pete said evenly. Andy rolled his eyes. 

“ _Speaking of_ ,” he said again, emphasizing the words like they were supposed to mean something to Pete. “You should probably tone down the gay.”

Pete stared at Andy for a long moment.

“Okay,” he eventually said, slowly, like maybe Andy was having a stroke or something. “I’m only going to explain this once. I cannot _tone down_ the gay. Mostly because I’m bi. But also because that’s just a social construct, and _”acting gay”_ is a meaningless, empty phrase.”

“You know what I mean,” Andy said. 

“No, I don’t,” Pete retorted, then pressed the back of his hand to Andy’s forehead. “Are you feeling okay? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“The point I am trying to make,” Andy said, smacking the hand with three fingers held up that Pete had shoved in his face aside. “Is that your whole gay routine on stage should probably be put on hold for a while.”

“That’s homophobic,” Pete said, acutely aware of how dumb he sounded. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Andy replied, unaffected. “You know what I mean. I highly doubt Patrick--who _doesn’t know who you are_ , remember--”

“I remember,” Pete said sourly. 

“--would appreciate you hanging off him and kissing his neck and all that shit,” Andy finished, as if Pete had not interrupted at all. 

“I stopped doing that,” Pete corrected. “Since the--well, I’ve stopped doing that. He asked me to.”

“You’ve _mostly_ stopped doing it,” Andy allowed. “But for your physical well being, I’d advise you to pretend you don’t even know Patrick on that stage.”

“That would be a tiny bit difficult,” Pete said. “Considering he’s our singer.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re trying to be as dumb as possible on purpose,” Andy said. “Asshole, please focus. We are going to figure this out. In the meantime, we need to not spook Patrick into running home with his fake wife. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Pete muttered. “So we’re going back to ‘three shows before the hiatus’ routine, I guess.”

“The hiatus is over,” Andy said, raising an eyebrow. “And you’re married to Patrick now. I’d assume that bygones would be bygones and all that.”

“Yep,” Pete lied, loudly and badly. “Totally. In the past. Doesn’t matter.”

“Wow, you sound super convincing,” Andy said. “Maybe this _is_ your fault.”

“In what fucking universe is Patrick’s sudden and complete amnesia of all things related to me _my fault_?” Pete objected. Andy rolled his eyes. “You’re grounded.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Andy repeated. “And I don’t know, Christ. None of this makes any sense.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Pete snapped, and Andy only had to raise an eyebrow for a half second before Pete deflated. “Sorry.”

“It’s a hard time,” Andy said magnanimously, patting Pete’s shoulder and evidently letting his outburst go. “Maybe it’s a good time to examine any residual feelings you have about what happened before you got married.”

“Before I got married,” Pete repeated, somewhat numbly. “You mean before the hiatus. When Patrick and I fought nonstop.When I’m pretty sure we wanted to kill each other. You think dragging that up right now will help anything at all?”

“Well,” Andy said. 

“Look,” Pete interrupted. “Patrick and I got married. We resurrected Fall Out Boy. What’s in the past needs to stay there, for everyone’s sanity.”

“That sure is a healthy way of looking at things,” Andy said dryly. “You’re a champion of rational thinking.”

“I’m not going to bring my Patrick back by rehashing old, dead arguments,” Pete said, crossing his arms. “And I’m certainly not going to bring him back by dwelling on what came _before_. Pretty sure it goes both ways, anyway.”

“Maybe so,” Andy said, nodding sagely. “Well, until we figure it out, please keep your hands and your dick to yourself.”

“Scouts honor,” Pete said, biting at the words with all his leftover frustration and anger at the whole situation. It had only been like, a day and it seemed completely and utterly hopeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com. i live off comments, please feed me?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He frowned, looking up to meet Joe’s careful but curious gaze. Patrick’s frown deepened as he looked back down, blinking a couple times to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. 
> 
> He wasn’t. 
> 
> There, in bold black type, was that word. Saturday.
> 
> He turned to face Andy, acutely aware of the crowd at his back. 
> 
> “Andy,” he hissed, grip tightening on the neck of his guitar. “What the hell is Saturday?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for continuing to follow along! things are starting to snowball now, and the outcome isn't looking good. can everything go back to normal? or is this the new normal? stay tuned.

Pete had given him a wide berth since soundcheck. If Patrick trusted him in the slightest, he would say Pete was trying to be _respectful_ or something. 

However, he did not trust Pete, not one inch of him, so he settled for glaring suspiciously whenever Pete was in his direct line of sight. 

“Jeez,” Joe said dryly, as one of those exact glares sent Pete stalking out of the greenroom. Patrick automatically reached for Allie’s hand before remembering: she was banished from backstage before shows. He scowled. 

“What?” he said crossly, folding his arms with a huff. “What, exactly, is your problem?”

“Look,” Joe said, sounding frank. “I totally get that this is hard and strange and weird for you. I get that. But please consider how he feels. Until you woke up this morning, you were his husband. This is devastating for him and he is _trying_ to be nice. You could ease up a little, that’s all.”

“I don’t know him,” Patrick repeated stubbornly. “How am I supposed to react?”

“Fuck if I know,” Joe said, an edge to his voice that suggested he was growing real tired of this conversation, real fast. Patrick could relate. “But you’re both kind of in the same boat, so, like. Maybe be nicer.”

Patrick opened his mouth--what he was going to say, he didn’t know--but was interrupted by the stage manager knocking on the door to the greenroom. 

“Five minutes,” she called, and Patrick stood, slipping his leather jacket on and cramming the fedora onto his head. He took several slow, deep breaths--okay. This was okay. He knew all the songs, he knew all the lyrics, he could get through this show and go back to bed and maybe in the morning everything would be fixed. 

He knew that was the biggest of fantasies--he’d started to resign himself to the fact that this was, unfortunately, real and not a product of his sleep-deprived imagination. _Why_ it was happening was a whole other story, but he was pretty sure it really was happening. So he had to figure out a) why and b) what to do about it, preferably pronto. 

He couldn’t live like this. 

“No,” he said, somewhat numbly, as the stage tech held out a guitar, shiny and white and _not_ the instrument Patrick played for the band. “I play bass.”

The stage tech looked confused, guitar still held out at the ready, like he didn’t anticipate being told _no_ of all things. He looked behind Patrick with a pleading, _please tell me this is a joke_ expression on his face, and Patrick felt someone rest a cautious hand on his shoulder. 

“So,” Andy said carefully. “I know you think you play bass for us.”

“I don’t _think_ I play bass for us,” Patrick said haughtily, cheeks hot. “I _know_ I play bass for us.”

Patrick didn’t get it, he really didn’t get why the fuck this was happening to him. Maybe he should go home, fuck the money. Was this even worth it?

But something in him told him _no_ , told him _stay, see this out_ and that something was loud for its size. Patrick figured he could at least try and listen to it. He knew no one could convince him Allie wasn’t his wife, so maybe sticking around would explain some things. 

Then again, maybe it wouldn’t, but someone always told him it was worth it to try. If only Patrick remembered who the fuck said that.

“Okay,” Andy said, gentle, like Patrick was a toddler ready for naptime, but not before a truly awe-inspiring tantrum. “But, just consider something. Can you try and play guitar for us? I mean, you know the parts, right?”

“Of course I know the parts,” Patrick said tersely. “I wrote the damn songs.”

“Exactly,” Andy said, nodding like Patrick had agreed with him or something. “So it won’t be a problem to play guitar one show, right?”

“Then who plays bass?” Patrick asked, knowing the answer and hating it already. Andy winced. 

“Well,” he said. “Pete does.”

Patrick scowled. 

“I can’t believe this is happening to me,” he muttered, before thrusting his hand forward and gesturing for the guitar. “Fine. But mark my words, if I go out there and fuck up, next show I will be back on bass and _Pete_ can bite me.”

“Fine, that’s fine,” Andy said quickly, in that way he’d perfected lately of trying to shut Patrick up. Patrick heaved a sigh and slung the guitar strap over his shoulder, standing up straight and trying to slow his breathing. 

It really was fine. He did know the guitar parts. And just because he’d never performed them before didn’t mean he couldn’t. He was not the shy eighteen year old from _Take This To Your Grave_. 

The crowd was cheering even in the pitch blackness as they took the stage. Patrick knew to his left he’d see Pete, but he refused to even glance his way. Joe was on his right, and he was steady. Reliable. He was _right_ , unlike everything else. 

Patrick took a deep breath, glancing down at the setlist taped in front of his mic stand. Just to make sure. He was pretty sure he could handle guitar on everything, but just to be sure, he read through the setlist, mentally ticking off each song he was confident on. 

_Disloyal Order, Memories, Sugar, Phoenix, GTA, Saturday--_

_Saturday?_

He frowned, looking up to meet Joe’s careful but curious gaze. Patrick’s frown deepened as he looked back down, blinking a couple times to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. 

He wasn’t. 

There, in bold black type, was that word. _Saturday_.

He turned to face Andy, acutely aware of the crowd at his back. 

“Andy,” he hissed, grip tightening on the neck of his guitar. “What the _hell_ is _Saturday_?”

\----

“So, this may be a weird question,” Joe said as Patrick stormed backstage ahead of everyone, all but throwing his guitar to the ground, teeth gritted, hands in fists at his sides. Patrick could hardly hear Joe over the roaring in his ears, a kind of intense mixture of the crowd’s bitter disappointment at the abrupt end of the concert and the repetitive question looping in his mind: _Saturday, Saturday, what the hell is Saturday?_

“Maybe weird questions are off limits,” Andy said, in a very distinctive _don’t poke the bear, are you crazy, ah fuck there you go, you idiot_ tone. “Yeah? Joe? Let’s let this one go?”

Joe did not seem inclined to listen. 

“Why the hell did we abruptly end the concert just now?” he demanded to Patrick’s back. Patrick thought he was giving off excellent _don’t fuck with me_ vibes, but apparently they needed work. Or Joe was just ignoring them like a champ. “Not to mention ending it without playing _Saturday_? You know, our favorite song? One of the most popular songs? I can bet the crowd has the same damn question, Patrick.”

“Stop,” Pete said quietly, shocking the hell out of Patrick, but he didn’t have time to dwell on his surprise because Joe was steamrolling over the entire band, apparently. 

“Answer me,” Joe snapped. “You are not in charge of the band, you are not the world’s tiniest dictator of Fall Out Boy City, will you _please_ fucking explain to me what you were doing there?”

Patrick gave up. 

“I don’t know what the _fuck_ _Saturday_ is,” he hissed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pete flinch on the words and turn away, presumably out of some sort of self defense. If this world was real--and Patrick was seeing more and more evidence that this was not actually a long con set out to get him, which was terrifying--he assumed _Saturday_ was some sort of love song from Pete to Patrick, or something like that. Patrick closed his eyes for a long moment before swallowing and fixing Joe with a glare that hopefully could melt steel. “I don’t know what it is, so it would be a little hard to end a show with a song I have never heard of before.”

“No,” Joe said, sounding a little numb, shaking his head frantically. “No, no way, this is _too weird_ \--”

“ _This_ is too weird?” Andy interrupted. “Out of absolutely everything that has happened in the last like, two days, _this_ is what you’ve decided to lose your mind over?”

“It’s _Saturday_ ,” Joe said, somewhat plaintively, as if that was supposed to mean something. Andy sighed, so Patrick supposed it meant something to _him_ at least. “I just--you can’t--”

“Can’t what?” Patrick demanded, a little hysterically. “Can’t not know? Spoiler alert, I sure as fuck can.”

“You--”

“We’ve established he doesn’t know,” Pete said tiredly, cutting into the argument with the finality of a man tired of hearing it. “Debating isn’t going to make him remember. We just won’t play it.”

Andy sighed. 

“I guess,” he conceded. “Not like there’s much else to do.”

“I hate this,” Joe muttered. 

“Take a number,” Pete snapped, scrubbing his hands across his face. “You didn’t wake up with the only person you’ve ever really loved magically not knowing who you are, alright?”

There was something in Pete’s voice as he spoke, something edging on desperation and heartache, like he was mourning the loss of a spouse to war. Maybe that was what it felt like to him--Patrick tried and failed to once again imagine waking up without Allie.

It felt strange, foreign almost, for a half a second, throwing him for a loop before the memory slammed down like a steel trap--yes, yes, Allie. His wife. He wouldn’t want to be without her. 

“This,” Joe said, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Is, and I cannot stress this enough, a terrible, terrible disaster.”

“Wow, you’re, like, a regular Einstein,” Andy muttered, and Joe opened his mouth, presumably to argue, but was interrupted by the door to the greenroom banging open. “Oh, Jesus Christ, woman, we _told_ you backstage was off limits.”

“Patrick seemed upset,” Allie said, a little wild-eyed as she made a beeline towards Patrick, cupping his face and kissing him before Patrick could really react. “Are you okay, sweetie, what’s going on?”

What was going on? As per usual, he had no idea what was going on, but if Allie caught wind of him being upset by a stupid song he allegedly knew but didn’t remember, she’d lose her mind, and Patrick very much wanted to keep her calm. Because keeping her calm meant he’d have one less thing to worry about.

“No, I’m good,” Patrick managed, a little dumbly. “I’m good, we’re all good, right guys?”

“Right!” Pete said, with the exact wrong amount of false cheer. Patrick winced. Allie narrowed her eyes. 

“You better not be forcing him to lie to me,” she began threatening, and Andy rolled his eyes. 

“Patrick is an adult,” he informed Allie, as if talking to a teenager mid temper tantrum. “He makes his own decisions. If he says he’s good, he’s good. Right, Trick?”

“Right,” Patrick said, voice hollow and flat. “Allie, could you excuse us?”

Allie narrowed her eyes. 

“Why?” she asked suspiciously, and Patrick heaved a sigh. 

“Because,” he said plaintively. “Look, I’ll be out in a second. I have a lot in my head and I need to just...breathe. For a second.”

Allie scowled. 

“Fine,” she said shortly. “But I will be right. Outside. The door.”

With that, she turned on her heel and stalked out, banging the greenroom door shut behind her, and Patrick let out a long breath.

“So that was an interesting turn of events,” Joe said, and Andy groaned. “What? He’s basically been surgically attached to that woman until now, it’s not interesting that he’s asking her for space?”

“Could you please just not?” Patrick said tiredly, sinking onto the couch. “Please, just. There’s a lot going on right now, okay? Apparently there’s an entire song I don’t remember writing but everyone else seems sure exists and my whole worldview is upside down, okay? Allie was the only thing that made sense but I can’t even--I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“Do you need your inhaler?” Pete asked immediately, worry tinging his words. Patrick was taken aback for a moment, stunned into silence, not that that wasn’t a common occurrence lately. Pete looked genuinely concerned, fidgeting where he stood, wringing his hands like he wanted to drop to his knees and fuss over Patrick.

“I--no,” Patrick said quietly. “But thank you.”

Pete blinked and it was his turn to look taken aback. To be fair, Patrick hadn’t been much of anything but caustic to him since this started. It was a miracle Pete still looked in love with him most of the time. Joe’s words echoed back to him--it was hard for Pete, too. 

Patrick sighed. 

“Alright,” he said. “Tell me about _Saturday_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com! come talk to me, i don't bite (unless you ask). 
> 
> also comments make me a happy camper. please leave some! they're all i have to live on.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you want to try?” Patrick asked, settling the guitar in his lap like it belonged there, in a move so natural it hurt. He strummed--Pete was pretty sure he recognized the opening chords of Sugar, but his racing heart was so loud it was difficult to say. Andy took a deep breath.
> 
> “If I sing to you, maybe it will come back,” he offered, and Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Hey, I’m not auditioning for lead singer or anything, it’s just. I think it will help. Like muscle memory. If you remember the chords, the words will follow. Or something.”
> 
> “Or something,” Patrick repeated, tone slightly mocking, adjusting the guitar with a sigh. “Alright. Fine. What could possibly go wrong?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you get an early posting this week! i am going on a mini vacation this weekend and won't be able to post tomorrow. thanks for reading along, hope you enjoy!

Things really and truly could not possibly get worse for Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third. It was bad enough his husband didn’t remember him. He was only the man he’d pined after for years and he’d finally managed to snag, but whatever. That was bad enough, God didn’t need to throw this into the mix. 

Pete never thought he’d have to face down Patrick and tell him about _Saturday_. That was just…..untouchable, it was immortal, it rose above everything else, even the hiatus, it _survived the hiatus_ and Pete was supposed to introduce it like it was brand new?

Andy seemed to sense Pete’s frantic thoughts. Not that they took much deducing. Pete wasn’t really one for subtle, never had been, and he could already tell his face was a mess of confusion and heartbreak.

“Can I try something?” he asked, and Patrick jerked like he’d forgotten anyone else was in the room, his lead-heavy gaze ripping from Pete and freeing his lungs to take a gasping breath of air. Patrick blinked as Andy handed him a guitar like he was trying to make a sacrifice to a cruel and uncaring god. 

“What do you want to try?” Patrick asked, settling the guitar in his lap like it belonged there, in a move so natural it hurt. He strummed--Pete was pretty sure he recognized the opening chords of Sugar, but his racing heart was so loud it was difficult to say. Andy took a deep breath.

“If I sing to you, maybe it will come back,” he offered, and Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Hey, I’m not auditioning for lead singer or anything, it’s just. I think it will help. Like muscle memory. If you remember the chords, the words will follow. Or something.”

“Or something,” Patrick repeated, tone slightly mocking, adjusting the guitar with a sigh. “Alright. Fine. What could possibly go wrong?”

Really, honestly, the rest was Patrick’s fault. Pete felt quite confident in blaming Patrick for it. After all, he uttered those immortal words _what could possibly go wrong_ so really, he tempted fate here. Pete had nothing to do with it. 

Andy cleared his throat. 

“I’m good to go, and I’m going nowhere fast--” Joe scrambled for his guitar, too, wincing as it made a horrible, out of tune noise, but powering on, eyes on Patrick, who’s jaw had gone a little slack. Joe’s voice backed up Andy’s. “It could be worse, I could be--”

“Taking you there with me,” Patrick whispered, and Andy’s voice cracked as Joe’s guitar screeched into silence, dead silence, so quiet Pete could hear Patrick’s labored breathing.

“Trick?” he asked hoarsely. “Trick, you--you remember?”

Patrick’s eyes had closed, brows wrinkled. He shook his head a little, like he was trying to dislodge water from his ears, or like he was drunk and trying to make the world stop spinning. Pete’s hands closed into fists as the concentration grew on Patrick’s face before he let out all his breath in one harsh exhale and looked up, eyes frustrated. 

“Yes--no,” he said, shoulders slumping. “I thought, it was there, but then I focused on it, and it’s--it’s like an out of tune radio. Coming in and out. What the hell is happening to me?”

“We’ll find out,” Pete promised, and Patrick scowled. 

“They’ll find out,” he said, pointing at Andy and Joe as if there was another _they_ he could possibly mean. “You--you’re not an unbiased observer. You have a stake in this game.”

“Yeah,” Pete agreed, because how could he lie? “It’s called _you_.”

Patrick frowned, opening his mouth again, but Joe and Andy must have been sharing the Fall Out Boy braincell at that moment, because they cut in quickly. 

“I’m good to go...”

“But it looks like I’m still on my own,” Patrick finished, like it was an impulse, an instinct. His eyes had glazed over a little, but when Joe’s fingers stilled on the guitar, he shook his head again, burying his face in his hands with a groan. 

“I can’t,” he whispered pathetically, head still covered. “I can’t, it’s not there. This isn’t happening.”

“Oh, it’s happening,” Joe said, strumming his guitar roughly for emphasis. “Let’s do it baby cakes.”

“Do not,” Patrick began, but Joe rolled right over him. 

“C’mon, what’s next,” he said, then began singing. “I’m good to go for something golden.”

He sent Pete a meaningful look. Pete swallowed, mouth impossibly dry, voice bound to be the worst it’d ever been, but he charged on anyway, because Andy was glaring at him, too. And he had to do something. He had to. 

“Though the motions I’ve been going through have failed….” 

Pete was pretty sure every emotion he’d felt since Patrick laid eyes on him and didn’t recognize him came through loud and clear in his voice, and even if he didn’t realize it, the look Joe sent him as he sang said it all.

“I’m coasting on potential towards a wall, at a hundred miles an hour,” Patrick’s voice was a sudden and welcome interruption. His eyes had gone glassy again, a small wrinkle forming between his eyebrows as he stared into the distance at something none of them could see. 

“When I say?” Andy prompted, speaking instead of singing. He was looking at Patrick intently, like if he looked away Patrick might vanish. Pete wouldn’t put it past the universe to do that to him, he really wouldn’t. 

Patrick’s hands were shaking on the guitar and he cleared his throat, missing two chords before coming in on the chorus. 

“Two more weeks, my foot is in the door,” he sang, voice cracking, and Pete’s heart leapt a little. 

“I can’t sleep,” he joined in, sounding terrible and not caring, rushing to continue the song, to continue Patrick’s shaky line of memory, tied to the music that had always grounded him. “In the wake of Saturday.”

Like a dutiful backup chorus, Joe and Andy chimed in, joining in on the melody as they sang, Pete’s hopes rising with the volume. 

“When these open doors were open ended,” and Pete forgot all about Allie, forgot all about the horrible shit that brought them here, forgot that they were only singing this song in a desperate bid for Patrick to get some memories back. For a second, it was just him and Patrick, and Patrick was singing this to him for the first time. 

Patrick wasn’t looking at him but Pete felt the weight of his gaze from a decade ago, felt how it felt to hear this love song for the first time and to know he couldn’t act on it, no matter what. He knew he’d ruin Patrick, he couldn’t ruin his golden, untouchable, perfect boy, couldn’t mess him up with Pete’s ugly. 

It took a yearlong break and Patrick’s insistence to convince him to try, and now Pete couldn’t bear losing Patrick all over again. He really couldn’t.

Pete’s heart was in his throat, beating hard against his windpipe as his mind jumped ahead and told him what the next lyric was. Yes. Yes, Patrick would remember this, he would, and then whatever had happened would be fixed, he would _remember_ Pete, would remember everything. 

“Me and--”

The greenroom door slammed open, cutting Patrick off and clearly jerking him out of his trance. The guitar slipped off his lap and Joe caught it quickly before fixing Allie with the darkest of glares. 

“He is supposed to be on _vocal rest_ ,” she snapped, voice like ice and broken glass. “Now is _not_ the time to practice new songs.”

“Allie,” Patrick said, voice cracking. “I’m not sure--”

“Absolutely not,” Allie seethed, striding across the room in three gigantic steps and grabbing ahold of Patrick’s arm in a grip that did not look gentle. “You three have done enough. You need to rest, Patrick. You don’t need their games right now.”

“Allie,” Joe said, at the same time Pete spoke up, voice far more quiet and timid than he’d ever heard himself be before. 

“Trick,” he whispered, and Allie yanked Patrick closer to her with a look that could melt steel. 

“No,” she hissed. “No, stop messing with him. I am at my limit.”

“But--”

“Pete,” Andy cut in, jerking Pete’s attention from Patrick and _Patrick slipping away, Patrick leaving, quick, stop him_. “It’s alright. I’m sorry, Allie. We’ll see you on the bus, okay, Patrick?”

“Okay,” Patrick said quietly, sounding exhausted. Allie steered Patrick towards the greenroom door with one more hateful look at Pete before leaving them in stunned silence. 

“He didn’t even fight back,” Pete whispered numbly, and Andy and Joe exchanged an unreadable look. “She took him and he didn’t even fight.”

“Pete,” Joe said gently. “He thinks that’s his wife. This is hard for him.”

Pete dragged his gaze up off his torn jeans to fix on his bandmates. His hands were shaking a little, he felt sick. Where hope was bubbling just a little while ago, despair now replaced it, flowing freely throughout his body.

“This isn’t getting better,” he said, and Andy shook his head. “No, Andy. It’s not.”

“Pete,” Andy tried, but Pete had heard enough. He stood on somewhat shaky legs, hands clenched into fists, breathing labored. 

“This isn’t getting better,” he repeated. “I’m never getting my husband back.”

Pete didn’t wait for either of their useless platitudes, just turned and walked from the greenroom, ready to find the nearest bar and get roaring, stinking drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments pls?? my birthday is in a week. no pressure.
> 
> i'm at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com if you wanna chat.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete blinked a few times at Patrick, like Patrick was some absurd creature he couldn’t quite believe he was seeing. That, or he’d forgotten how to use his eyes for their intended purpose. It was a tossup.
> 
> “I want a flamethrower,” Pete said.
> 
> “That sounds like a bad idea,” Patrick replied, clueless as to where Pete was going with this. Pete emphatically shook his head, then groaned and swayed for a moment as, presumably, the world stopped spinning around him, or at least slowed down a little. 
> 
> “On my bass,” he clarified, which did not actually provide much clarification at all. “A flamethrower on my bass.”
> 
> “To do what with?” Patrick asked. “Light your hair on fire?”
> 
> Pete barked out a laugh, entirely too loud for this time of night, but Patrick choked on his own giggle anyway. Pete laughed with his whole body; throwing his head back, clutching his stomach, stomping his foot. It was ridiculously endearing, and Patrick had no idea if it was just a drunk Pete phenomenon or if Pete was always this free and happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the birthday wishes everyone! it was fun. i'm super old now.

Pete hadn’t returned. 

Patrick wrestled with himself--ask Joe and Andy? Or don’t?

Asking would imply Patrick cared where Pete was. Which he didn’t--okay, well, he did, but not because he liked Pete or anything, that would be ridiculous. His care was simply professional. If Pete truly was their bass player, they could hardly continue the tour with him missing, could they? 

Besides, even if Patrick cared at all--which he most emphatically did not, something he shouted to himself louder each time, until it was about the same decibels of a jet plane taking off--he only cared because things were strange right now. If some weird dimensions got crossed or Pete was in the wrong timeline or _Patrick_ was in the wrong timeline or even if witchcraft was somehow involved, Pete could be in danger.

Any normal human would be worried if someone was in danger. It was purely a morally just situation and nothing more. 

Going back to his hypothetical and non-existent “liking” of Pete, well. Even if he did, it wasn’t like _that_ , not really, it was just...platonic. Or like whatever is right before platonic, where Patrick wouldn’t really call Pete a friend or even an acquaintance, but also didn’t consider him scum under Patrick’s toes or anything. 

He gave up.

“Hey,” he said, and Andy looked up at him, eyebrow raised. Patrick’s mouth went dry. This was a stupid fucking idea. 

“Yes?” Andy prompted when Patrick didn’t elaborate. Patrick picked at a stray piece of thread on his jeans before trying to pull words from the oatmeal mush his brain had become. 

“So, like,” he said finally. “Pete’s not back.”

“I see that,” Andy said. His expression was frighteningly thoughtful. Patrick really didn’t like it. “Is there a question or are you just making an observation?”

Patrick kind of hated Andy. he also kind of hated Joe, who was sitting next to Andy, staring at the video game he was playing with the concentration of someone who wanted to make sure you knew they very deliberately weren’t paying attention, even though they heard the whole fucking thing. 

“Where is he?” Patrick said, giving up again. Andy’s eyebrow raised further. Patrick thought if it went any higher, it would fly off his forehead. 

“Last I checked, he went to a bar,” Andy said, turning the page of the magazine Patrick was like ninety percent sure he wasn’t really reading. “Why? Do you miss him?”

“Is it really safe for him to be in a bar alone?” Patrick asked, before he could think about what he was saying. Amusement joined the knowing look on Andy’s face and Patrick scowled halfheartedly. “I mean.”

“You mean?” Andy asked. Patrick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

“I don’t hate Pete,” he said, instead of answering. That damn eyebrow twitched. “I don’t. It’s not his fault things are fucked up. And he seems like an alright dude.”

“Wow,” Andy said. “That’s quite the 180.”

Patrick groaned. 

“Okay,” he said pointedly. “I get it. I was an asshole, yeah yeah. I was confused, alright? I still am. Consider how I felt. Feel.”

“I have considered it,” Andy said, maddeningly calm. “In detail. And I have concluded your life must feel pretty shitty right now. It is nice that you’ve decided Pete is a human being worthy of your time and attention.”

“Will he be returning from the bar anytime soon?” Patrick asked, losing patience. This was all so frustrating and confusing. He didn’t hate Pete, he was telling Andy the truth, but he also didn’t know why he felt nervous and on edge whenever he looked around the room and remembered Pete wasn’t there. Not just that he wasn’t in the area of the bus Patrick was currently on, but not on the bus entirely. 

Pete seemed like exactly the wrong kind of person to be allowed to go drink unsupervised. And Patrick had a vested interest in keeping the band together, even if the band was a confusing mess at present. 

The gnawing feeling deep in Patrick’s gut didn’t let up, though. It made Patrick want to grab his phone and wallet and search every bar in the immediate vicinity for Pete and drag him back to the bus. Patrick didn’t understand, but the urge was strong and loud and incessant. 

“He will probably come back soon,” Andy finally replied, closing the magazine like Patrick was suddenly worthy of his full attention now. His look, when he fixed it on Patrick, was disturbingly knowing. Patrick was not a fan.

“Okay,” Patrick said shortly, hoping to cut Andy off before he began. No such luck.

“He will come back drunk,” Andy continued. “So I guess the ball is in your court.”

“How?” Patrick asked before he could stop himself. “How is the ball in my court if Pete’s the one coming home drunk?”

Andy smirked. 

“I don’t see Allie,” he said, which was not the direction Patrick thought he would go. “And Pete is very used to being taken care of while inebriated. Care to guess who usually coddles him?”

“So he’ll be expecting me to be there,” Patrick finished, dread growing in his stomach. “And he’ll be drunk, so he won’t be able to reason well.”

“Bingo,” Andy said. “So. You plan on putting your dislike of Pete aside to rub his back while his dumb ass pukes?”

“I just told you I don’t _not like_ Pete,” Patrick said. “I’m just not used to this. Okay?”

“Neither is Pete,” Andy shrugged. “Like I said, the ball is in your court.”

“Duly noted,” Patrick said sourly. Andy smiled at him, though there was something sharp and cutting in his gaze, before he opened the magazine back up, clearly ending his involvement in the conversation. _So_ not fair. 

Patrick sighed, sitting back. It wasn’t like there was much he could do, anyway.

\----

It wound up being about two in the morning when Pete stumbled back onto the bus, eyes bloodshot, coordination wildly off. Patrick was still up--it was _normal_ to be concerned, okay--and when Pete’s eyes landed on him, they started filling with tears.

“I miss you,” he said, slurring his words, swaying unsteadily. He made a wild, swinging grab for the wall and missed. He would have come crashing to the floor of the bus in a heap, probably waking up everyone on the bus and in a three mile radius, but Patrick caught him before he could think about it, staggering a little as he took the majority of Pete’s uselessly drunk weight.

“Sit down,” he said quietly, guiding Pete to the couch as he spoke, wincing a little as his precarious grip on Pete slipped a bit and Pete hit the couch harder than Patrick intended. Pete seemed to not notice; just grunted and listed slightly to the side like a slowly sinking dinghy. Patrick thought about straightening him up, but it didn’t look like it would work, so he sat delicately on the edge of the couch beside Pete.

Pete blinked a few times at Patrick, like Patrick was some absurd creature he couldn’t quite believe he was seeing. That, or he’d forgotten how to use his eyes for their intended purpose. It was a tossup.

“I want a flamethrower,” Pete said.

“That sounds like a bad idea,” Patrick replied, clueless as to where Pete was going with this. Pete emphatically shook his head, then groaned and swayed for a moment as, presumably, the world stopped spinning around him, or at least slowed down a little. 

“On my bass,” he clarified, which did not actually provide much clarification at all. “A flamethrower on my bass.”

“To do what with?” Patrick asked. “Light your hair on fire?”

Pete barked out a laugh, entirely too loud for this time of night, but Patrick choked on his own giggle anyway. Pete laughed with his whole body; throwing his head back, clutching his stomach, stomping his foot. It was ridiculously endearing, and Patrick had no idea if it was just a drunk Pete phenomenon or if Pete was always this free and happy. 

Either way, it was kind of a nice look for him. Patrick tried to ignore the little, insistent voice that told him he really _should_ know what Pete’s laughs were like. 

For the first time, though, he didn’t internally argue with that voice, either. 

“No,” Pete said, and Patrick was reminded they were in the middle of a conversation, albeit a one-sided drunken conversation. Pete’s eyes were crinkled a little in mirth, lips damp and pink, and wow, Patrick really needed to stop that, now. 

“No?” Patrick echoed, and Pete nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again before swaying momentarily. Patrick grabbed Pete’s shoulder--just to steady him, that was it--and Pete almost melted, falling to the side along Patrick’s body like he was meant to be there. 

Patrick didn’t have the heart to urge him upright. But if Pete vomited in his lap, Patrick really would quit the band and permanently _Eternal Sunshine_ Pete out of his brain. 

“No,” Pete repeated from somewhere in the vicinity of Patrick’s stomach. “It would look cool.”

“I don’t think you can be trusted with a flamethrower in any capacity,” Patrick said. “No matter how cool you think it is.”

Pete giggled again, squinting up at Patrick with an absolutely smitten expression on his face. Patrick felt his heart skip a beat at that and his hand wandered to card itself through Pete’s messy hair without his express permission. 

“You smell like a bar floor,” he told Pete seriously, and Pete just giggled again. 

“This is what I love about you,” he said, beaming. “You worry for my safety and insult me all at the same time.”

“Those were two separate statements,” Patrick said. “Don’t get them confused.”

Pete’s eyes filled with tears and Patrick felt panic creep up his spine. What? He’d been nice, he was letting Pete cuddle, what was Pete upset about? He opened his mouth to uselessly say anything remotely reassuring, but Pete beat him to it. 

“I keep thinking,” he said, breath hitching. “That somewhere in there is a Patrick that remembers me, and he must be so scared. You must be so scared. I would do anything to fix it for you, I just want you back, Trick. I just want you back.”

Patrick was speechless. He stared at Pete helplessly, searching for something to say, anything to say. He didn’t know--how was he supposed to make this better? Anything he said was liable to make it worse, and Pete wasn’t in a state to reason with Pete. 

Actual tears were falling down Pete’s cheeks now, his breathing erratic. Patrick swallowed past a brutally dry throat, reaching out with one shaking hand and smoothing a thumb down Pete’s cheek, wiping away the tears. 

“I’m sorry I don’t know you,” Patrick whispered finally, and Pete’s breathing caught. “But if I’m in here somewhere and I know who you are, I promise I’ll come out. There’s nothing you can’t do, and bringing me back, if I’m missing, is definitely something you can fix. I might not know you but I do know that much.”

Pete smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which were wide and wet and serious. They also didn’t leave Patrick’s face: he just stared intently for a long moment.

“I accept that challenge,” he said, voice remarkably even and calm for someone so inebriated. “If it kills me.”

“Hopefully it won’t,” Patrick replied before he could help himself, and Pete carefully took his hand, pressing his lips to the back of it for a long moment. 

Patrick didn’t push him away. Around them, the bus began to hum to life quietly, the driver evidently starting the engine now that Pete was back on board. 

Patrick sat in silence with Pete, just looking at each other as the bus began to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are the only things that sustain me, please provide for your starving author. i also live at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s--there’s like, a hole,” Patrick said, voice strained. “Like, I feel it. Something’s missing. And I don’t know what it is--I only know what you’ve told me, I have to trust what you’ve told me and I don’t know. It’s all so strange.”
> 
> “You seem better,” Andy said, guarded. “When she isn’t around. You almost seem like you remember.”
> 
> “I don’t,” Patrick said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much for sticking with me! this past week has been hard emotionally so this isn't as long as i wanted, but i hope you like it! thank you to the pack for cheering me on and comforting me.

Pete woke up with a pounding head, dry tongue, and the unpleasant taste of the seven rats that must have died in his mouth last night. His neck was sore; he’d evidently fallen asleep in an awkward position. 

Belatedly, he realized his pillow was breathing. His hangover prevented him from freaking out about his pillow breathing, which was nice. His mind was just sluggish enough to disregard how weird that was. In fact, it prevented him from using any logic at all, because he didn’t lose it as he looked up and his sluggish brain informed him that the pillow was actually Patrick’s chest slowly rising and falling as he slept in an equally awkward position.

He’d clearly fallen asleep in that position to avoid jostling Pete as _he_ slept. Pete didn’t know how to take that. On one hand, Patrick still seemed to distrust him at best, despise him at worst, but on the other, he’d allowed Pete to pass out quite literally on top of him. 

Pete grinned despite himself, hesitantly pushing closer to Patrick’s warm, soft body. He smelled like the same old cologne that he’d worn since the hiatus, since Pete stumbled to his house, just as drunk as he’d been last night, and declared that he would never love anyone like he loved Patrick. 

He remembered he’d passed out in Patrick’s bed that night, the man himself secure and solid beside him, and never looked back. 

Until the day Patrick woke up and didn’t remember him. 

Patrick sighed irritably, which meant he was waking up. Pete knew his tells as well as he knew his own. He quickly shut his eyes, evening out his breathing, feigning sleep. Real Patrick, the Patrick he knew, the Patrick he loved, would have been able to tell he was faking without a doubt, but this Patrick didn’t--

He cut himself off mid thought. Crying would suck right now, his head hurt enough. Plus, he was kind of trying to pretend to be asleep. He felt a little sick trying to picture what Patrick would do--shove him off? Yell at him? Pete wasn’t sure he could handle that. 

Patrick sighed, stretching a little underneath Pete. Pete could picture him: bleary eyed, cheeks sleep-creased, hair tousled adorably. Pete wanted to run his fingers through it. 

Patrick stilled suddenly, making a soft, confused noise as he apparently realized Pete was laying on him. Pete hoped he bought the sleeping act. He couldn’t face questions. He just couldn’t, not now that he had Patrick this close to him. 

What felt like years passed with Patrick still and quiet but clearly awake. Pete could feel Patrick’s gaze on him even without looking, could sense his dilemma--stay or go?

_Stay_ , Pete begged in his head. _Patrick, please stay._

Gently, hesitantly, Pete felt Patrick tangle fingers in his short hair. Pete knew his hair was greasy and gross from not washing it in like a week. Patrick had been bitching at him about it, too. 

_“Goddamn you, Pete, it stinks.”_

_“Straightening it is so much work.”_

_“Leave it natural then, damn.”_

Tears welled in Pete’s shut eyes at the memory. God, he really had it bad, didn’t he? Even thinking about their arguments made his heart ache with how much he fucking missed his husband. He missed him like part of his soul had gone missing, he really did. 

Patrick dragged his fingers achingly gently through Pete’s hair, thumb rubbing at Pete’s temple. Pete tried not to give the game up by pressing closer, by burying his face in Patrick’s neck, by scrambling onto Patrick’s lap and kissing him like he was desperate to feel again. It was only by some miracle he managed not to do it. 

“I see you _did_ take care of him.”

Andy’s voice almost-- _almost_ \--made Pete flinch, but he stayed still and quiet even as Patrick’s hand froze halfway through another round of carding through Pete’s hair. He didn’t speak for a long moment and Pete felt like it took years. 

“He was just drunk,” Patrick said, voice slightly hoarse. “I must have passed out before him.”

Andy snorted. 

“Yeah, right,” he said, humor in his voice despite the fact that the underlying situation was still quite grim. “I know Pete. More to the point, I know _drunk_ Pete. He will put his claws--metaphorically--in you and won’t give up until you cuddle him. You, specifically, I mean. Usually Joe and I can hit him until he gives up. You’re kind of a pushover.”

“For him,” Patrick said, blurted out, really, and Pete hoped no one noticed his breathing catch after that. Patrick exhaled slowly, hand relaxing a little in Pete’s hair. “It bothers me.”

“What does?” Andy asked. Pete could just _see_ the professionally raised eyebrow. It had been directed at him enough as Andy spoke in that tone of voice, after all. Patrick sighed, a little shakily, and Pete tamped down the urge to sit up and comfort him like a Revolutionary War soldier tamping down his gunpowder. An apt comparison, considering Pete felt two seconds from blowing up himself. 

“There’s--there’s like, a hole,” Patrick said, voice strained. “Like, I feel it. Something’s missing. And I don’t know what it is--I only know what you’ve told me, I have to _trust_ what you’ve told me and I don’t _know_. It’s all so strange.”

“You seem better,” Andy said, guarded. “When she isn’t around. You almost seem like you remember.”

“I don’t,” Patrick said. “But I feel…”

Patrick trailed off, fingers working past a tough tangle right at Pete’s scalp, insistent but gentle, and Pete’s heart ached. It took everything in him to not reach up and gently take Patrick’s hand, press a kiss to it, squeeze it. He wanted Patrick to know Pete was _here_ , Pete would always be here, that he might have made mistakes before but he wouldn’t make them again. 

But there was nothing he could do. He felt empty, hollow, useless. There was absolutely nothing he could do to help Patrick, so he kept still, kept feigning sleep.

“I feel _desolate_ ,” Patrick finally said, voice cracking. “I feel absolutely desolate, and when Allie is here, I don’t.”

“What do you feel when Allie is here?” Andy asked, and Patrick was quiet for another endless moment. Pete didn’t breathe for a second of it, heart hammering in his chest. 

“I feel nothing,” Patrick finally said, and Pete tried not to cry. It was Andy’s turn for his breath to catch, and when he did, he asked the question Pete was dying to hear. 

“In a good way?” he asked, voice tense. “Or in a bad way?”

Patrick sighed again, pulling his hand out of Pete’s hair to rest it on Pete’s shoulder. A moment passed, where Patrick rubbed circles onto Pete’s shoulder, just like he did before all this. Patrick was still in there. Patrick _had_ to still be in there.

“I don’t know,” Patrick answered finally, a resounding answer, a gavel, a door slamming and locking. Patrick took a shaky breath and squeezed Pete’s shoulder once. “I don’t know.”

\----

“Hello, sweetheart,” Joe said, blowing a kiss at Pete as he staggered into the kitchenette. Pete rubbed his eyes, trying to chase away the blurry vision. His head pounded--he’d fallen back asleep on the couch, not waking until--Pete checked his watch--two in the afternoon. Swell. 

“Fuck you,” Pete grouched, pulling open the mini-fridge and looking for catharsis in the form of a Monster. 

Catharsis was not meant to be found this morning. Afternoon. Whatever. Joe was watching him with unnervingly curious eyes, steadily demolishing a bag of Cheetos. Pete’s stomach churned for a moment. He blamed it on the bus. 

“I’m dying to know,” Joe said, licking the Cheeto dust off his fingers in the most disgusting way imaginable, offering Pete an excellent view of the remains of orange clinging to his back teeth and partially-chewed Cheetos coating his tongue. Erugh. “What the hell happened last night?”

“Good question,” Pete grunted. “Don’t remember. Woke up earlier--”

“Yes,” Joe interrupted, nodding sagely. “Sleeping on Patrick. Very interesting. Continue.”

“And then passed out again,” Pete said, like Joe hadn’t said a word. “Just woke up. So sorry, can’t fulfil your fantasies of hearing the stupid things I do drunk. Stay up next time and see it for yourself.”

“You definitely got under Allie’s skin,” Joe noted, crumpling the bag and reaching over to wipe his sticky, gross fingers on Pete’s shirt. Pete was too hungover to possess the reactions necessary to stop him, but he did wrinkle his nose. Credit where credit was due and all that.

“She gets under _my_ skin,” Pete pointed out. “What the hell did I do to her now?”

“That was my question,” Joe said. “But she’s giving Patrick a fairly solid dressing down in the bunks area. Something about sleeping with you.”

“No,” Pete said instantly. “No, no _way_ , I would definitely remember if _that_ happened.” 

“Obviously,” Joe said, inclining his head like an aged wizard burdened with the infinite knowledge of the universe. Pete really hated that look. “However, she walked into the main room of the bus to find you sleeping aaaaaall cuddled up to Patrick.”

“I was drunk,” Pete protested.

“Yes,” Joe said. “I know. She doesn’t care. Brace yourself: things are about to get real nasty. Andy probably should have intervened before.”

“Not you?” Pete asked. Joe shrugged. 

“I don’t have any common sense,” Joe said. “At least, according to Patrick.”

He jerked his head towards the bunk area, giving Pete what he was legally required to call a meaningful look. Pete resisted rolling his eyes. It would only make him more nauseous. 

“Fine,” Pete said shortly, then turned and made his way as quietly as possible towards what was possibly a setup. He was pretty sure his friends wouldn’t do that, but not sure enough. 

“I thought you loved _me_ ,” Allie said, through what were so clearly crocodile tears it made Bronx’s look genuine. Pete steeled himself. 

“I do,” Patrick protested. “Honey, of course I love you. Why would you think otherwise?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Allie all but snarled. Pete recoiled as if she was a rabid cat out for blood. Not too far from the truth, he supposed. “Possibly because you slept with that stranger.”

“I did not _sleep with_ Pete,” Patrick said. “He fell asleep on me. I was worried if I woke him up he’d puke. So I just left him alone.”

It was a piss poor excuse and Pete was pretty sure everyone in earshot knew that, but props to Patrick for at least trying to come up with something. 

“You _care_ about him,” Allie sobbed. “More than me!”

“No,” Patrick said, and, although Pete knew he’d hear that, it still felt like grabbing a live wire and not letting go. “Honey, I couldn’t care about _anyone_ more than you.”

“Yeah?” Allie asked. “Prove it!”

“How am I supposed to prove it?” Patrick asked, sounding lost. “Babe, I married you.”

Allie sniffled. It was so goddamn fake. Pete kind of wanted to throat punch her. 

“But he thinks you married him,” Allie said. “What if he steals you away?”

“Not going to happen,” Patrick assured her. “I’m not even gay.”

_No_ , Pete agreed in his head. _Because you’re fucking bi._

Miraculously, he kept his mouth shut and just stayed hovering, waiting for the inevitable next blow to his heart. It was coming. It had to be coming, Pete knew it, it was going well for a half second so it was time for it to implode. It was only a matter of time. 

Allie sniffled again--Pete resisted the urge to chuck a box of kleenex at her--and Pete heard her kiss him. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and that was fake too, Pete knew it. “It’s just so scary.”

“I know,” Patrick reassured her. “I’m scared, too. But we’ll figure this out. Together we can do anything, right?”

Pete felt sick. No. No, he couldn’t--that was _his_. That was _his_ to say to Patrick when things got rough, not for Allie, for _Pete_ and for _Patrick_ and fuck, none of this was fucking fair. 

“Sure,” Allie said, and Pete’s hands curled into fists. “Together. I really want you to stay away from him. Pete. I don’t trust him.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Patrick said, and Pete’s traitorous heart whispered _that’s not a yes_. “I promise, Allie.”

“I don’t trust him,” Allie repeated. “Okay? If there was a way to get rid of him, I would.”

“I promise,” Patrick repeated, and Pete crept backwards, away from the bunks, heart in his throat, feeling sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com. i am hungry and comments feed me. please be my providers.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But when Allie came back, Patrick was instantly reminded that she was his wife. It was like she was all that mattered when she was around, like he damn near forgot Pete’s name entirely, like Allie was everything to him. And she was, Patrick swore she was, he was married to her and everything, but there was just something wrong and he couldn’t put his finger on it. 
> 
> He didn’t know what feelings were right. He didn’t know if Pete was right or Andy was right or if he was in a strange, alternate dimension where no one was right. He kind of wanted to go to sleep and wake up certain of the truth, whatever that truth may be. He wanted to figure it out, but he was lost with no idea where to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry this is so sad. actually, no i'm not. thanks for coming along with me! buckle up.

Patrick still didn’t know what to do. It was an odd feeling--he might not remember Pete but he remembered life with the band and he knew he was the dependable one, the one who always had an answer, but now he just didn’t. On one hand, Allie wanted what Allie wanted and Patrick needed to respect that but on the other hand, Pete was allegedly their bassist and it really did seem unfair to kick him out completely. 

Patrick was just so confused. He wasn’t even this confused when he woke up with Pete in his actual bunk. Then, there was a lot of swearing and being sure he was being pranked, but now, as it got more and more real, Patrick was just confused. 

When Allie wasn’t around, like last night and this morning, Pete wasn’t so scary. He was almost charming in a dorky, asshole way and he really did care about Patrick. Patrick was pretty sure anyone could see it all over Pete--the man didn’t exactly have a good poker face. 

But when Allie came back, Patrick was instantly reminded that she was his wife. It was like she was all that mattered when she was around, like he damn near forgot Pete’s name entirely, like Allie was everything to him. And she was, Patrick swore she was, he was married to her and everything, but there was just something wrong and he couldn’t put his finger on it. 

He didn’t know what feelings were right. He didn’t know if Pete was right or Andy was right or if he was in a strange, alternate dimension where no one was right. He kind of wanted to go to sleep and wake up certain of the truth, whatever that truth may be. He wanted to figure it out, but he was lost with no idea where to begin. 

Abruptly, he realized he was playing a melancholy tune on his guitar, entirely without meaning to. He stopped playing, sending the hotel room into sudden quiet. He sighed, glancing across the room to the empty bed. He’d expected Pete to be his roommate, given the situation, but Joe volunteered instead. He’d hitched a ride to Taco Bell, presumably to give Patrick some time to himself, but the silence felt lonely rather than enjoyable.

His phone, lying on the mattress beside him, caught his eye. He remembered--Allie wasn’t in his phone, but pictures of he and Pete were. He hadn’t looked at them, afraid that would make this situation real, but there probably wasn’t much doubt about the realness of this situation now. Looking at the pictures wouldn’t change anything. 

Patrick picked up his phone after setting his guitar to the side, unlocking it quickly and chewing on his bottom lip. After a long moment, he opened his photos and began scrolling through. 

As he scrolled, he couldn’t help but notice that Pete was the star of a vast majority of these photos, along with a kid he didn’t recognize. His heart sank. Did--did he and Pete have a _kid_ in this universe? Was there a child here wondering where his other father was? That wasn’t fair, not to Patrick or the kid. Something was very, very wrong. 

He kept going, willing the fates to allow him to see one picture of Allie, one shred of evidence that he wasn’t crazy, but the longer he scrolled the worse it got for him. Pete across from him, presumably at a restaurant, also presumably on a date. Pete with one foot on a skateboard and one hand held up in the air, as if he was saying _just film this, I got it_. Pete, on his ass on the ground, giving the skateboard a hurt, confused look. 

All at once, Patrick could almost _see_ this scene play out. It had to be his brain inserting what he knew about Pete, but it felt so real. Him, laughing at Pete tried again only to land on his ass once more. Pete, grumbling about Patrick’s laughter until Patrick--

Patrick brain stopped at a knock on the door. His mind went clear all at once, like he’d forgotten everything except he still felt it there, under the white noise. He was just--he was just thinking--

“Babe?” Allie called from the other side of the door. Patrick frowned, looking up, halfway standing to go answer it. As he did, his phone fell from his grip and hit the carpet. Patrick glanced down in surprise--when had he been using his phone? 

He crouched to pick it up, freezing once his brain registered what he was seeing. Was that--it was, it had to be, it was him and Pete kissing, and the expression on his face told everyone that Patrick was the happiest man on Earth. 

He touched his own lips in wonder, eyes wide as he stared at the picture, struggling to comprehend it. It--that was _real_ , he felt it in his gut. 

Allie knocked again and Patrick felt that ice cold something try and wash over him again, but this time he fought it, gritting his teeth and focusing on the picture. Something wasn’t right. Something had to be up. 

He walked to the bathroom even as Allie knocked once more, the darkness in his mind chasing him, and closed himself into the bathroom, pulling the seat down on the toilet and sitting on the lid. He closed out his pictures and brought up his contacts, instead, scrolling until he found _Mom--cell_. 

He exhaled steadily, willing himself to ignore the nagging voice that told him his _wife_ was looking for him. He had to know. His mom would know and he _had_ to hear it from her. Maybe that would fix everything. 

He hit call, chewing on his thumbnail as it rang. He felt a little sick with anxiety--what would his mother say? He was both desperate to find out and terrified to hear it. 

“Hi, honey,” his mom said, voice cheery and bright across line, a total contrast to how Patrick felt. “How’s tour going?”

“This is going to sound crazy,” Patrick replied, by way of actually answering. “But please hear me out. Who am I married to?”

His mother laughed like Patrick had cracked the best joke of all time, laughter dying out when Patrick didn’t join in. He knew enough about himself to know he was terrible at telling jokes, always laughed his way through them. He clutched the phone in his sweaty hand, toes curling on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. He felt sick.

“Honey,” his mom said. “What’s going on?”

“Please answer the question, Mom,” Patrick begged quietly. “I promise I will explain.”

“Patrick!” Allie called, voice muffled through two doors and a wall, but making that darkness creep towards Patrick’s brain again. He reached over and flipped on the exhaust fan, letting that drown out Allie’s voice. 

“You’re married to Pete, Patrick,” his mom said, sounding concerned. Patrick couldn’t blame her. He was concerned, too. “You gave Pete a chance a year after the band took a break. You married him right after the reunion. Honey. What is going on?”

Patrick took a deep, shaky breath, closing his eyes and trying his hardest not to burst into tears. 

“It’s a long story,” he said finally, voice cracking. “I swear I’m not making this up.”

\----

“We need to talk,” Patrick told Andy in an undertone as they lingered in the wings before their encore. Andy turned to him, eyebrow raised, and Patrick swallowed. “Please.”

“I’m listening,” Andy said, but his expression was frightfully thoughtful. Patrick huffed out a sigh, moving his sweaty bangs with the air, and cracked his knuckles like he was preparing for a fistfight. He sure felt like he was. 

“I have decided,” Patrick began carefully, an eye on the stage manager. “That there is something not right about Allie. I can’t--I don’t know _for sure_ , but in the hotel room last night I gave up and started looking at the pictures on my phone and I felt like I was close to remembering something?”

“You remembered something?” Andy demanded immediately, standing up straight like a military commander was about to walk by or something. His gaze was heavy on Patrick. Ugh. “What did you remember? You should have led with that.”

“No,” Patrick said. “I think I was _close_ to remembering something. But then Allie knocked on my door--”

“--She is _not allowed_ in the hotel,” Andy said murderously. Patrick ignored him. 

“And it was like my mind went blank,” he said. “I didn’t know what to do. I knew I was on the edge of remembering, then her voice just like...wiped my mind. Then I looked at my phone and the picture was still open so I kind of. Hid in the bathroom? And called my mom.”

“Who said?” Andy asked expectantly. 

“She said I’m married to Pete,” Patrick said, voice plaintive. “Andy, I don’t _understand_. You say I’m married to Pete. Pete says I’m married to Pete. Joe and my mom and the pictures on my phone all fucking say I am married to Pete. But I _don’t remember this._ And I clearly remember Allie. Almost too clearly.”

“What are you trying to say?” Andy asked in undisguised interest, holding out his hand to signal the stage manager to wait. Patrick sighed again. 

“I’m not sure,” he said honestly. “I’m really not sure what’s happening, but I don’t think Allie is telling the truth. Can you--can you kind of keep her away from me for a bit? I feel like maybe that will help.”

“Sure,” Andy smirked. “I would be fucking delighted to keep your fake wife away from you. On one condition.”

“Which is?” Patrick asked. Andy stared him down for a long moment. 

“You spend more time around Pete,” he said finally. “Because _he_ is who you are married to. And he loves you. And I’m really going to need this nightmare to stop soon, so if looking at pictures of you and Pete almost triggered something, hanging out with the real deal might do the trick completely.”

“We’re in a hotel tonight,” Patrick uselessly pointed out.

“Yep,” Andy said. “Enjoy your new roommate. But yes.”

“Yes?” Patrick asked, thrown. 

“I will keep her away from you,” Andy said seriously, joking demeanor entirely dropped. “And I will tell Joe to do the same. I’ll steal you all the time you need to come back to us, Stump. Got it?”

“Got it,” Patrick said weakly, and Andy grabbed his cheeks to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Thanks.”

“We’re getting you back,” Andy said firmly, like he was telling himself the same thing. “I promise.”

“I believe you,” Patrick said, and followed Andy back out onto the stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com and also i need comments and kudos to survive. please feed me thank u.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Quick question,” Pete hissed into Andy’s ear as the band walked into the hotel. Patrick was ahead of them, walking with Joe, and a glance around them reassured Pete Allie was nowhere in sight. That made Pete more uncomfortable than he cared to admit. “Why do I have a new roommate?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta we die like men!!!!!
> 
> for reals though i've been Suffering this week and i almost didn't get this done. please forgive any mistakes and thank you for continuing along with me! many thanks to the pack for all the support <3

“Quick question,” Pete hissed into Andy’s ear as the band walked into the hotel. Patrick was ahead of them, walking with Joe, and a glance around them reassured Pete Allie was nowhere in sight. That made Pete more uncomfortable than he cared to admit. “Why do I have a new roommate?”

“Sorry,” Andy said dryly. “I didn’t quite catch that. I think you said _thank you, Andy, oh merciful one, for convincing Patrick to room with me._ I paraphrase.”

“How did you do that?” Pete asked. “Because I thought he wanted to stay away from me. That’s what Allie told him to do, anyway.”

“Things are different now,” Andy said, hiking his duffle bag higher on his shoulder. “We had a Conversation.”

“A conversation,” Pete repeated. 

“No,” Andy said, infuriating Pete. “A Conversation. Capital letter.”

“What was this _Conversation_ about?” Pete asked, putting heavy sarcastic emphasis on _Conversation_. Andy looked too smug for his own good.

“It was about how he’s starting to not trust Allie,” Andy said, and Pete’s eyes widened to approximately the size of dinner plates. 

“He doesn’t _trust_ \--” he began, but Andy slapped a hand across his mouth. 

“Shut up,” he said. “Talking about him behind his back is not the first step of romance.”

Pete licked Andy’s hand and Andy hissed, making a face and pulling it away to wipe on Pete’s shirt. 

“What is the first step of romance?” Pete asked. Andy rolled his eyes. 

“You tell me,” he said, sounding like he was on the last dregs of his patience. “You’re the one who wooed him before. What did you do then?”

“What I did then relied on years of knowing him,” Pete pointed out. “Something that’s missing with Brand New Patrick.”

“Jesus Christ,” Andy complained. “You act like someone who’s never been on a date before. Just...talk to him like normal. Music. Star Wars. Normal shit, Pete, I don’t know what to tell you. Except try and refrain from sticking your tongue down his throat. Or anywhere else.”

“Gross,” Pete said. “I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just make a sex joke about me and Patrick.”

“Whatever makes you happy,” Andy said solemnly. “Point is, Patrick’s in your room, dude. It’s your time to shine.”

“Shit,” Pete muttered. They’d caught up to Joe and Patrick. Patrick gave him a small, sidelong glance, like he wanted to make sure Pete was there, which was a new feeling since the whole Allie thing. Pete gave him what he hoped was a genuine and reassuring smile and, to his apparently neverending surprised, Patrick flashed a smile back, before turning back to Brian. 

“Here are your keys,” Brian said. “Meet in the lobby at 1pm. Feel free to sleep in, but if you miss hotel breakfast you’re on your own to find a Starbucks. Don’t come crying to me.”

“Yes, dear,” Joe said, passing Andy a key card. “Here, Pete. You and Patrick.”

Brian raised an eyebrow but thankfully didn’t comment as Pete took the cards from Joe, handing one to Patrick without really looking at him. He couldn’t trust himself to stay calm and not freak out with the knowledge that he was going to be sharing a room with Patrick for the next twelve hours, and that maybe now, finally, progress could be made. Pete wanted his husband back so badly it hurt. 

The ride up to their rooms was quiet, almost awkwardly so. Joe and Andy were clearly putting up an air of disinterest, but their furtive, quick glances at Pete and Patrick gave the game up. 

For his part, Pete was giving Patrick a respectable amount of space, which was a miracle, because just last week, Pete would have been draped all over Patrick, basically sharing air with him, making suggestive comments into his ear between yawns that made it clear they were looking at, at best, lazy handjobs in the shower. 

But that was then and this was now. And this was stranger-Patrick, cold and distant, space between them Pete had to respect. No matter how his heart felt, he had to respect it. 

The elevator dinged and the door swung open and Pete stepped out with nerves making him tremble. 

\---

The second the hotel room door closed, Pete felt like he was suffocating. Patrick didn’t look at him, just dumped his bag on one of the beds and flipped on the lamp, bathing them both in that eerie, hotel room glow. Pete felt like he could write three songs about the way Patrick’s skin looked under that light. 

Pete felt vulnerable. He tore his eyes off Patrick and busied himself with bullshit: rummaging through his back for his shave kit and toothbrush, plugging in his phone charger, arranging the pillows _just so_. Behind him, he heard Patrick take a slow, measured breath, and he tensed. 

“I think,” Patrick said haltingly. “We need to talk.”

Pete nodded at the pillows. He was pretty sure that if they had them, they would be rolling their eyes at him. For fuck’s sake. It was still _Patrick_.

“I guess we do,” Pete replied, proud of how his voice hardly wavered. He swallowed, forcing himself to turn around and meet Patrick’s eyes as best he could. He was bolstered by the expression on Patrick’s face, like he wasn’t too sure what to do, either, and he was wringing his hands a little, hovering in place. Pete gestured at the bed. 

“Should we sit?” he offered, and Patrick nodded wordlessly, sitting on the edge of the other bed, waiting very clearly for Pete to sit across from him. Pete did, hiding the shakiness of his hands in his lap, looking at Patrick with an expression he hoped was reassuring and attentive. Patrick let out a long, slow sigh, rolling his shoulders back like he was potentially preparing for battle.

“I talked to my mom,” he said, which was not at all where Pete expected this conversation to go, let alone begin. He nodded, hoping that was enough encouragement, and Patrick seemed to take it for what it was. “She told me what everyone but Allie has been telling me. That I am married to you.”

Pete nodded again, although this time it was mostly because he didn’t think he could speak without his voice cracking on tears and relief. Patrick sighed again. 

“That means everyone but Allie has been telling me the same thing,” Patrick continued. “And I’m a fairly logical person, at least I hope so. So if I believe in my own logic, I have to believe Allie is the one out of place here.”

Pete tried to tamp down the hope that leapt in his chest, but it was too late. It bloomed just below his heart and began winding up his throat, exploding in blossoms behind his eyes, filling his head with the sweet floral scent of relief. Did Patrick really say that? Because if Patrick really said that, Pete was beginning to see an end to the nightmare his life had become. For the first time, there might have been a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, as it were. 

“Oh,” was what Pete actually said, a little dumbly, because the only other option was to start cheering, and he didn’t think that was quite appropriate. “Um. So?”

“So,” Patrick echoed, tearing his gaze away from his hands to fix Pete with an all to familiar look of expectation, the kind of look Patrick wore when Pete did something stupid and Patrick was waiting for the inevitable piss poor explanation. “I think I owe you an apology.”

For the second time, Pete didn’t expect that to leave Patrick’s mouth. He blinked stupidly, like a deer caught in the headlights, and swallowed past a suddenly dry mouth. 

“You what?” he somehow managed to say, sounding a bit strangled. Patrick began picking at a stray thread on the hotel comforter, the exact absent nervous tic he’d always had, and it bolstered Pete somewhat. Yeah, Patrick was in there. And he was closer than ever to coming back. Pete knew it. “You don’t owe me anything ba--Patrick. I understand.”

“I was so mean to you,” Patrick said, uncertain. “And it wasn’t your fault, what was happening.”

“You were just confused,” Pete said, as patiently as he could, even though the part of his wounded pride he’d locked away to deal with later yelled about how unfair it was that Patrick got to throw fits and Pete had to stay calm. “I don’t blame you.”

“I blame myself,” Patrick said, shrugging. “But what I want most out of all of this is for it all to be fixed, fast. I asked Andy--I need Allie to stay away. If she’s the one out of place--well, I don’t want to say this is her fault.”

_I do,_ Pete thought mutinously.

“But she certainly doesn’t belong here,” Patrick continued. “So it only makes sense to steer clear of her while we figure this out, right?”

He sounded like he wanted the reassurance that he’d done the right thing. Pete tried to consider: he had just gone through a whole barrel of emotions in like a handful of days. He just wanted to be told it was okay. 

Pete could do that.

“I don’t think it will hurt,” he said, as gently as possible. “And whatever I can do to help--absolutely _anything_ \--I will do, okay? I promise everything will be okay again. Soon.”

Patrick gave him a slightly watery smile. Pete didn’t call him on that or the dampness of his eyes or the way he rubbed at them quickly, breathing hard. He just sat and waited for Patrick to more or less collect himself. 

“Okay,” Patrick said finally, seemingly back under control. “Okay. So. We’re here, right? So we might as well talk.”

“I thought that was what we were doing,” Pete said, honestly and truly before he could help himself. Patrick’s lips actually quirked into a smile and he rolled his eyes, although it seemed more fond than anything. “What did you want to talk about?”

Patrick fixed him with an inquisitive look, the kind that made Pete feel like squirming in his seat. Instead of doing that, Pete just took a long, slow breath: in through his nose, out through his mouth, yadda yadda. 

“Tell me about our wedding,” Patrick said, and Pete swore his heart actually stopped in his chest. He gaped at Patrick for a long moment, and Patrick waited patiently, though he looked a little amused. Pete grasped for words, any words, any single word in the human language, literally anything that would make sense.

“You looked so beautiful,” he finally croaked, voice atrocious, like he’d been sucking cock for hours. Bad analogy. He cleared his throat. “You were the most beautiful person I had ever seen.”

The words hung in the air, spinning into silver in the near silence, broken only by the hum of the hotel room air conditioner. Patrick was staring at Pete with wide eyes, and Pete’s heart thudded in his chest just this side of painful. He searched Patrick’s face for anything remotely similar to recognition, desperate for one shred of hope. 

Patrick blinked like stars were in his eyes and swallowed hard. 

“Go on,” he said, and Pete melted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com and i'm also available to scream about good omens. please leave comments, it's all i love for. love ya.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We talked about it,” Pete said, placating. “Trick-- Patrick-- we did talk about it. We hashed it out, I thought.”
> 
> “Must not have very well,” Patrick snapped. “Or why would I be so pissed? You slept with me? When I was eighteen? And just...left?”
> 
> “I was a dick!” Pete said, standing too, face to face with Patrick. “I was a dick. I admit it, I own up to it. There were so many things wrong with me, I was a horrible influence and a worse friend, but I grew up. We both grew up. You weren’t an angel, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's this? could they be.....talking about it? buckle up, the last few chapters are a ride, my friends. 
> 
> thanks for following along!

“I have pictures,” Pete said, voice trembling a bit. Patrick took a deep breath and forced himself to unclench his hands, to let out a slow deep breath and loosen his jaw. Pete wasn’t scary. He knew that like a prayer. He knew none of this was Pete’s fault, and Pete _wasn’t scary_.

“Pictures?” he finally asked, feeling slightly detached from reality. The room was dim, he could easily slip into pretending everything was fine, even though it wasn’t. “Of?”

Pete swallowed, Patrick could hear it. 

“Of our ceremony,” Pete said, and fuck, his voice sounded defeated. Broken. Patrick felt awful. “Do you want to see them?”

Patrick expected the answer to be no. He expected a brief but firm refusal, a _no thank you_ and quick change of subject, but when he opened his mouth, what came out was:

“Yeah,” Patrick said, surprised at himself. “Yeah, show me.”

He felt more than saw Pete’s disbelieving gaze on him for three seconds, but then Pete was fumbling for his phone, quick, frantic, like Patrick would change his mind if Pete took too long. Patrick kept his mouth shut, held himself still. He breathed in, counted to five. He breathed out. 

“It’s my most looked at album on my phone,” Pete said, sounding proud, before he faltered, phone halfway extended. “Uh, help yourself.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said, carefully taking the phone from Pete’s outstretched hand. It was unlocked, a photo already up on the screen. Patrick swallowed. 

The photo was him, he recognized himself. He was dressed pretty sharply, if he did say so himself, in a grey suit and a smile Patrick hadn’t worn in days. Certainly not since All This Happened. 

He swiped to the next picture. It was him and Pete, arm in arm, walking down the aisle, grinning at each other like nothing else existed in the world. Patrick cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. There was something...something….he couldn’t quite put his finger on it but it was there, bugging him, worrying at the edges of his mind.

He swiped. 

Them again, standing across from each other, staring into each other's eyes. They were saying their vows. Patrick knew that like a lightning bolt to the chest. They were saying their vows to one another. 

“An only child of the universe,” Patrick said, before he could help it, and Pete looked up sharply. Patrick felt his gaze, hot, but he didn’t look up, just swiped to the left. 

Another of them saying their vows, and _fuck_ could Patrick hear it clear as day. His lips moved without trying. 

“And then I found you,” he breathed, and Pete choked a little. Patrick looked up after what felt like an eternity and Pete was nodding, staring at Patrick with wide, pleading eyes, the kind of eyes that said _remember. please remember._ Patrick swallowed past a lump in his throat. 

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why can I remember this now but also remember my wedding day with Allie?”

Pete made a sound like Patrick had taken out a gun and shot him.Patrick swallowed. 

“I don’t know,” Pete said, voice hoarse. “But, God, Trick, please believe me. You have to believe me.”

“I do believe you,” Patrick insisted. “At least mostly. I’m here, aren’t I? I just want things to make sense again.”

“What can I do?” Pete asked desperately. “Because I’ll do anything. Anything! Want me to tell you all my sins? Would that make this nightmare end? I’ll confess.”

“Confess to what?” Patrick asked, bewildered. Pete gestured at nothing. 

“Take your pick,” he said. “The way I treated you before the hiatus? That’s a good one. I was a real dickhead then. When you were barely eighteen and we slept together and I pretended it never happened? That’s an _award winning_ douchebag move. Or how about--”

“You did all that?” Patrick asked, slightly numb. Pete froze. 

“Well, I--yeah,” he said, shoulders slumping. “I wasn’t a fantastic person, Trick. It’s a miracle you married me. I think that’s why it hurts so much worse.”

“Did I _know_ you did all this?” Patrick asked. Something slow growing but hot was building in his gut, working its way up his esophagus. It tasted sharp, like a bloody penny, acrid in the back of Patrick’s mouth. He rolled it around a little before he recognized it: anger. Not panic, not fear, not confusion. Anger. Pete’s eyes were wide. 

“Well, yeah,” he repeated. “You were sort of there for most of it.”

“That’s an excellent question,” Patrick said, standing, dropping Pete’s phone to the bed next to him. “Why _did_ I marry you? I might not know myself right now, apparently, but I do know I must have some semblance of standards, correct? So why the hell did I pick you?”

“We talked about it,” Pete said, placating. “Trick-- Patrick-- we did talk about it. We hashed it out, I thought.”

“Must not have very well,” Patrick snapped. “Or why would I be so pissed? You slept with me? When I was eighteen? And just...left?”

“I was a dick!” Pete said, standing too, face to face with Patrick. “I was a dick. I admit it, I own up to it. There were so many things wrong with me, I was a horrible influence and a worse friend, but I grew up. We both grew up. You weren’t an angel, you know.”

“At least I didn’t--”

“Fuck!” Pete said, voice raised but not quite shouting. “Patrick, you were a goddamn dictator in the studio before we took a break. You threw shit at me over a chord change. You quit the band every time something didn’t go your way. The break changed us, for good. Fuck. I thought we got through this.”

Pete’s voice dropped by the end of his sentence, like he was suddenly exhausted. He sank back to the bed, swiping a hand over his face, and sighing shakily. 

“Pete,” Patrick tried, but Pete shook his head tiredly. 

“I can’t right now, Patrick,” he said, voice raw and open. “Okay? I just can’t. We can--we can talk more later. I need space.”

Patrick stared at Pete for a long moment. The anger was subsiding, ebbing back the more he breathed, and he took in Pete for a long moment. His hair was greasy, face bearing a couple day’s worth of stubble, bags under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He was shaking a little, from emotions or something else, Patrick didn’t know, and a feeling very similar to shame hit him in the stomach. 

Christ. He didn’t even remember any of that and he had to start a fight over it? Christ, forget why Patrick married Pete, why did Pete marry _Patrick_? Pete’s body language suggested this was not the first time an argument like this happened. Patrick couldn’t be a pleasant person to be around when he was angry. 

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said quietly. “I’ll--do you want coffee, or something?”

“No thanks,” Pete said flatly. “I’m going to bed.”

With that, Pete stood, making a beeline for the ensuite and shutting the door with an awful sense of finality. Patrick took a deep breath and buried his face in his hands. 

Fuck. 

\-----

Pete hardly spoke to him the next morning. He grunted by way of hello and brushed past Patrick to meet in the lobby, standing as far away as possible. Patrick didn’t miss the looks Joe and Andy were throwing him, but this time the blame landed square at Patrick’s feet. 

He should apologize. He _needed_ to apologize, and soon, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Allie approach. Panic gripped him in his chest and he looked around frantically for somewhere-- _anywhere_ \--to hide. 

He couldn’t face her, not right now. He felt too fragile, too hollowed out and exhausted, and he knew deep in his gut she would steamroll right over him. 

Before he could panic too much, Pete took his arm, still avoiding his gaze, and gave a gentle tug, a clear invitation to follow him. Patrick took it gratefully, falling into quick step with Pete, not knowing where he was heading except _away_. 

A sharp pain hit his temple and he gasped, hands flying up to clutch at his head. Oh, God, it was _splitting_ , like a migraine but so much worse, and he heard vague noises of concern but couldn’t make out the words over the deafening roar of agony he currently felt. 

“You’re my husband.”

Well, except for Allie. He could hear Allie loud and clear, like she was in his head, and instead of feeling relief like he’d been feeling with her, he felt only fear. He didn’t know what she was doing, but he knew he wanted her to stop. 

“You’re _my_ husband,” she repeated, words harsh and angry. “Where are you going with _him_? Come back here right now.”

_No_ , he wanted to say. _No, things don’t make sense. I need them to make sense. If you were my wife, you’d understand._

“Make sense?” Allie scoffed. “I am all the sense you need. Say it.”

_No_ , Patrick repeated. _Stop._

He focused. The pain was still intense, but he tried to ignore it, tried to force his body to cooperate. The roaring in his ears was dying down the harder he concentrated, and, eventually, words began making sense. 

“Patrick,” Pete was saying, incredibly soft and gentle for how furious he still had to be, how hurt he still had to be. “Where do you want to go? Allie wants to take you to a room. I want to take you to the bus. You have to decide.”

“Patrick, come with me,” Allie said, commanding, and Patrick flinched without meaning to and shook his head. “Patrick, _now_. You are my husband.”

“No,” Patrick said hoarsely. “I’m going to the bus. I can’t deal with this right now.”

“No you are _not_ ,” Allie said, voice sharp. Pete’s grip on Patrick’s arm tightened a little, defensive, protective. Patrick tried to focus on that. Everything around him seemed to be in free fall, sort of, like an elevator crashing to the ground, and Patrick stumbled a bit as a wave of dizziness hit him. 

“Yes, he is,” Pete said, and began leading Patrick away. “Step by step, Trick.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispered, and Pete shook his head. 

“We can talk about that later,” he said calmly. “Right now we have to get to the bus. Can you see alright?”

Patrick focused. Shapes were a little blurry, like he wasn’t wearing glasses even though they were right on his face, but even with the pounding in his head, he could make out his surroundings okay. He swallowed, and nodded, squinting against the _brightbrightbright_ of outside as they left the lobby. 

Every step made the pain die down a little, like every step away from Allie was its own painkiller. He swallowed, willing the throbbing to recede, and by the time Pete was guiding him onto the bus, it was barely an ache behind his eyes. 

He sat on one of the couches, patting beside him when Pete hesitated. Pete gave him a long, searching look--Patrick’s vision was clearing up enough to see that and he felt a startling jolt of familiarity in that look, like he’d seen it before--and sat, tense next to Patrick. 

“The second I saw her,” Patrick said, sounding surprisingly hoarse. Fuck. He hoped that cleared up by the show. “I felt like my head was splitting open.”

Pete made a noncommittal noise. Patrick frowned. 

“Pete,” he said softly. Pete heaved a sigh, raking his hands through his hair before standing and pacing, like he didn’t have it in himself to stay still. 

“Are you ever coming back?” he asked, abruptly, rounding on Patrick with an almost accusing look in his eye. Patrick scowled, taken aback by the sudden subject change, unsure if he should be properly offended but being angry anyway. 

“Do you think I’m not trying?” he retorted hotly. “Don’t roll your eyes at me. Try and pretend you know how I feel. Every time I think I remember something, it gets yanked away from me. I’m living in a world that tells me I’m one thing when I don’t remember becoming it, and excuse me if it’s taking a little time to figure things out.”

“You remembered our vows,” Pete said stubbornly. Patrick felt a little lost for words. He--he wouldn’t say he remembered _all_ the vows, more like he remembered bits and pieces, but Pete wasn’t wrong. He remembered part of them. 

“I know I’ll remember more,” was what Patrick wound up saying, and some of the righteous anger ebbed out of Pete. His shoulders slumped and he turned, walking to the couch across the lounge and sinking down. He buried his head in his hands and sighed, long and drawn out. 

“I’m sorry,” Pete said finally, looking up at Patrick with a tired expression. “I shouldn’t be so demanding.”

Patrick swallowed, throat feeling approximately as dry as the Sahara. 

“I’m sorry, too,” he offered. “I picked a fight with you last night instead of just listening.”

Pete gave him a small grin. 

“Shall we start over?” he asked. “How’s your head?”

“Better now,” Patrick said. “Where do we begin?”

“How about our vows?” Pete suggested, and Patrick took a deep breath.

“Sure,” he said, hoping he would remember them. All he could do was hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smalltalktorture.tumblr.com, i am alive here and i need comments pls thank you


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Guilty,” Pete managed. He was surprised he could form words, to be entirely honest. He was focused on Patrick, barely breathing, unblinking, like doing either would break the spell being cast on the bus. The silence around them was heavy, like a warm blanket on a cold night, and Pete couldn’t look away from Patrick if he tried. “You--you remember?”
> 
> Patrick opened his mouth and shut it again before simply nodding, hands clenching on his lap. The world could have ended right around Pete and he swore he would have never noticed, too focused on the miracle happening to him. He struggled for words, any words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta again we die like men. please enjoy!

Pete didn’t realize this would be so exhausting. _This_ being _Patrick_ and the _memories_ and everything that came with it. Sitting across from Patrick was like facing down an army of people Pete once knew; familiar and unfamiliar all at once. He considered. 

“I feel like I’m living a kind of _Fifty First Dates_ existence,” he commented. Patrick frowned. “That or I’m back on _Punk’d_.”

Patrick snorted, a halfway delicate sort of thing, and it weirdly warmed Pete’s chest. Yep, that was definitely a Patrick Sound. 

“Is _Punk’d_ even a thing anymore?” he wondered, and Pete rolled his eyes. 

“Not the point,” he said. “Don’t derail.”

“I’m not the one who derailed,” Patrick said, rolling his eyes, but there was no heat in it. “How am I supposed to begin?”

Pete shrugged. 

“Last time you remembered them while you were looking at our wedding photos,” Pete said. “Maybe we should try that.”

“Was our first dance to _Elton John_ , Pete?” Patrick demanded, like a sharp, lightning bolt of a memory had hit him all at once. Pete sat up a little bit straighter, heart racing in his chest. Could it--was this--

Pete tried three times to say something, _anything_ , but as he swallowed past a parched tongue, all he could come up with was: “Y-yeah.”

“Why?” Patrick asked, sounding bemused. Pete cleared his throat. 

“Well,” he said. “You thought it was romantic. And I can never say no to you when you look like that.”

“Like what?” Patrick asked. Pete took a shaky breath, praying to some alternate life force that Patrick wouldn’t blow up at him over this. Eggshells were too sturdy; Pete was walking on something much more fragile. 

“Like,” he somehow managed, proud of how his voice didn’t even crack _once_. “Like hopeful and in love all at once. Like you were hanging on to every word I said. I--I don’t know how else to describe it. But I know I can never resist it.”

“Hopefully I don’t take advantage of it,” Patrick said, an actual, real smile crossing his face, soft and a little bit tender. Pete snorted, and Patrick bit his lip before amending: “Well, much.”

“Not _much_ ,” Pete said. “Anyway, that’s how we wound up dancing to _Piano Man._ ”

“Dancing to _what_?” Patrick demanded, eyes wide. Pete laughed. “I thought--”

“Kidding,” Pete managed. “Just kidding. We danced to _Your Song_.”

“Oh,” Patrick said, clearly mollified. “That’s what I thought.”

Pete froze, hardly daring to look up at Patrick, shaking a little. Was that--no. He had to be hearing things. Patrick couldn’t have just said--

“You thought?” Pete asked hoarsely. Patrick swallowed, looking a little uncomfortable in the intensity of Pete’s gaze. Eventually, he nodded, and it wasn’t until that moment that Pete realized he’d been holding his breath and let it all out at once. “God.”

His voice was full of raw emotion he couldn’t keep back and Patrick offered him a tiny smile, eyes a little watery. He was wringing his hands together in his lap, like he wanted to do something with them but didn’t know what. Pete’s whole body was feeling something similar. 

“I was just an only child of the universe,” Patrick said, voice shaking a little, but he was saying it, he was saying Pete’s vows. “And then I found you.”

Pete nodded, wanting to encourage it but not wanting to talk and ruin Patrick’s moment. Well, that and he had no idea what he would say other than launching in with Patrick’s part. 

“You were--you were too good to be true,” Patrick continued, eyes shutting and forehead wrinkling in concentration. Pete’s fingers itched to smooth it away, to soothe and reassure. Via divine or perhaps demonic intervention, he managed to keep himself still. “And you are the last of a dying breed. I will love you from now until eternity.”

Pete kept nodding, biting his lip against tears. This--this was more than Patrick had ever remembered before. It was like it was really coming back to him, like maybe this nightmare would truly be over. It felt dangerous to hope, like Pete was on unstable ground, but he could never stop himself now. How could he?

“That’s what you said to me,” Patrick breathed. His own eyes were filling with tears and he was staring at Pete like he was something too beautiful to comprehend, like Patrick couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You were _crying_ , you absolute sap.”

“Guilty,” Pete managed. He was surprised he could form words, to be entirely honest. He was focused on Patrick, barely breathing, unblinking, like doing either would break the spell being cast on the bus. The silence around them was heavy, like a warm blanket on a cold night, and Pete couldn’t look away from Patrick if he tried. “You--you remember?”

Patrick opened his mouth and shut it again before simply nodding, hands clenching on his lap. The world could have ended right around Pete and he swore he would have never noticed, too focused on the miracle happening to him. He struggled for words, any words.

“What else do you remember?” he asked. He halfway didn’t want to hear the answer and halfway desperately wanted to hear it. He didn’t know if he could bear _nothing_ but the thought of Patrick only remembering some things hurt just as bad. 

Patrick closed his eyes, forehead wrinkled as he thought. It was the same look he used when he was sorting out a particularly stubborn chord for a song, where the only focus was the music and nothing else mattered. That look had been successful so often in the past, Pete’s stomach leapt in what could only be described as sheer, desperate hope. 

“Bits and pieces,” Patrick finally answered. “You’re in the band. I remember. You write the lyrics. You don’t have a face in my head but I _know_ it’s you.”

Pete kept his mouth shut, terrified to interrupt Patrick’s memory. He was shaking a little but tried hard to keep himself still. His mind chanted the same thing over and over. 

_What else? What else? What else?_

“Some stuff I can’t remember all the way,” Patrick continued, slowly, like he was concentrating on every word. “There are some memories that are locked up tight and it _hurts_ to go near them. What would those be?”

Pete swallowed. 

“Probably our fights,” he said honestly. Patrick made a noise of understanding. “The years of unrequited love. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Patrick asked, eyes opening, looking at Pete in confusion. “The past is the past, you said so yourself.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not hurting about it,” Pete said, gesturing between them. “You can’t bear going near memories that might unlock everything because it hurts. Doesn’t seem very _in the past_.”

“You made mistakes,” Patrick said. “So did I.”

“But--”

“No,” Patrick said, voice firm. He reached over and put a firm hand on Pete’s thigh, the contact white hot and electric, damn near knocking the breath out of Pete. He stared down at it, shocked, and almost didn’t hear Patrick continue speaking. “It’s not fair to get mad at old things after saying I was over it. That isn’t--that’s not good boyfriend behavior. You’re right.”

“I’m right?” Pete said, surprise tearing his gaze up to Patrick, who was looking back at him evenly. “What do you mean?”

“I remember getting angry at you a few times over old stuff,” Patrick said, and the only indication that he wasn’t one hundred percent calm was the slight shakiness of his voice. His hand still burned on Pete’s thigh. “That’s what you said. You said it wasn’t fair that you had to keep getting punished over and over again.”

“You remember that?” Pete asked, and Patrick nodded, cheeks a little pink. “That’s not--I didn’t--I wasn’t trying to invalidate you, Trick. You’re allowed to have feelings. You’re allowed...if you hurt over it still, that’s allowed. I only meant don’t go cold on me. Don’t go silent. Talk to me.”

“I did shitty things to you,” Patrick said softly. His eyes were wide in the dim light. “You’re not holding it against me.”

Pete hesitated and of _course_ Patrick noticed. Patrick frowned.

“You are,” he said, realizing. “At least a little.”

“I don’t mean to be,” Pete confessed, shoulders slumping. “I just. It hurts sometimes, alright? I don’t know what to say.”

“I think that might be our problem,” Patrick said quietly. “Neither of us knows what to say.”

“Yeah?” Pete said, huffing a tired laugh. “What else do you think?”

Patrick took a long time to answer, so long Pete was afraid he’d slipped into thought again, slipped into memories he couldn’t quite catch. He was about to open his mouth when Patrick finally broke the silence.

“I think,” Patrick said, voice shaky. “I think I’m in love with you. I think I _remember_ being in love with you.”

Pete made a choked noise that may or may not have been a sob, refraining from launching himself into Patrick’s arms with the will of a thousand men better than him. It took everything for him to not kiss Patrick stupid, right there and right then, but there was still an approximately five foot four problem, and her name was Allie.

“What about Allie?” he asked, despite Lovesick Brain Pete screaming at him in his head. He cleared his throat. “Do you still remember being married to her?”

Patrick’s face fell. He swallowed. 

“Like it was a dream,” he said quietly. “Fuzzy and not clear. I don’t remember her as well as I did. It feels fake.”

_It is!_ Lovesick Brain Pete screamed, but Pete heroically ignored it. He cleared his throat. 

“You need to talk to her,” he said evenly. “You need to tell her you aren’t married to her. She doesn’t have any proof.”

“But--” Patrick began, but Pete cut him off. 

“It is taking everything in my power not to kiss you right now,” Pete said, and Patrick made an unhappy noise that severely tested Pete’s resolve. “Believe me, Trick, I want nothing more. But you need to resolve this.”

Patrick sighed, but nodded, looking up at Pete hesitantly. 

“Will you--” he began, before faltering. Pete waited as patiently as he could until Patrick found his voice again. “Will you help?”

“I can be there,” Pete said. “I will support you.”

Patrick nodded again. 

“That’s all I ask,” he said, and Lovesick Brain Pete loudly announced that _this_ would be a perfect time for a kiss, please. Pete slapped duct tape over Lovesick Brain Pete’s mouth. 

“I promise,” he said, and Patrick granted him a smile that lit up Pete from the inside out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, smalltalktorture.tumblr.com is my Home. thank you all!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick stopped dead, like his muscles froze and he was unable to move. He could see Allie at the buses. She hadn’t noticed him yet--whether that was a Godsend or not was up for debate. He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat, his constant reassurances to himself faltering a bit.
> 
> His hand went to his head out of a sheer Pavlovian response to the migraine he’d gotten last time he saw her, even though he didn’t have one now. What would he do if it happened again? It was damn near impossible to function, and Patrick really needed himself to function properly. 
> 
> “It’s okay,” Pete said gently, and Patrick damn near jumped a mile in the air. “Sorry. You’re okay, Trick, I’m right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are everyone! second to the last chapter! i hope you have your seatbelts fastened and your tray tables in an upright position, because we are ready for takeoff. 
> 
> thank you for reading along and i appreciate your dedication along the way. just one more chapter to go!
> 
> completely un beta'd so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> good fucking yard everyone.

Patrick could do this. He _could_ do this, even though there was a part of him saying it was stupid to risk everything for a feeling he had. He didn’t even fully remember Pete, for fuck’s sake!

He told that part of him to _shut the fuck up, please, I’m busy here_ and rolled his shoulders back, holding his head up high as he made his way to the buses, where he knew in his gut Allie would be. 

“You can do this,” he whispered to himself, muttering under his breath and making everyone he passed look alarmed. He wasn’t sure what he looked like, but he could imagine: wild eyed and determined, hands clenched in fists, talking to himself. “You _can_ , Patrick Stump, and you will feel better. You _deserve_ this, especially if--especially since--”

Patrick stopped dead, like his muscles froze and he was unable to move. He could see Allie at the buses. She hadn’t noticed him yet--whether that was a Godsend or not was up for debate. He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat, his constant reassurances to himself faltering a bit.

His hand went to his head out of a sheer Pavlovian response to the migraine he’d gotten last time he saw her, even though he didn’t have one now. What would he do if it happened again? It was damn near impossible to function, and Patrick really needed himself to function properly. 

“It’s okay,” Pete said gently, and Patrick damn near jumped a mile in the air. “Sorry. You’re okay, Trick, I’m right here.”

“What if it happens again?” Patrick asked, unable to keep a note of fear out of his voice. “What if I get a migraine again and I lose my train of thought and--”

“Okay, what we’re _not_ gonna do is panic,” Pete said, firmly but kindly, cradling Patrick’s face in his hands and turning him to look Pete in the eyes. Patrick felt a little calmer already. Hard to tell if that was instinct or something else, but Pete’s warm whisky eyes were difficult to look away from and near impossible to panic in front of. “Okay?”

Patrick swallowed past a dry throat. He wished he’d thought to get coffee or water or something. On cue, Pete reached into his dumb fucking totebag and emerged with a slightly beat up but otherwise presentable bottle of water. He handed it to Patrick with a sense of authority.

“Drink,” he said, a little commanding, but Patrick took a sip anyway. It did feel better. “Okay? Okay. So the gameplan. What is it?”

“I have to come up with it?” Patrick demanded, but Pete was not swayed by the puppy dog eyes Patrick was currently employing. It was like he had several years to build up immunity. Which, now that Patrick thought about it, was probably what happened. 

“So?” Pete prompted, once Patrick realized all endeavors to shift this onto Pete would fail. Patrick sighed. 

“I’m going to tell her I remember being married to you,” Patrick said, and he really hoped his voice would sound more like an adult and less like a scared seven year old when he actually had this conversation, but the likelihood was slim. “And I’m going to ask her if she has any proof she’s married to me. And when she doesn’t--”

“If she doesn’t,” Pete corrected, and Patrick shook his head.

“When she doesn’t,” he repeated, emphasizing the _when_. Pete clearly failed to hide the sheer joy in his eyes. Patrick took heart from it. “I’m going to ask--no, I’m going to _tell_ her to leave.”

“What about your memories?” Pete said, and Patrick paused. “Is it worth trying to get her to fix them?”

“Oh,” Patrick said. “I hadn’t thought of that. You think it’s her?”

“Makes about the only logical sense this situation can make,” Pete said, shrugging. “So?”

“I can ask,” Patrick said doubtfully. “But it probably won’t work. But the farther I am from her, the more I remember, so if she leaves…”

“You’ll probably remember everything,” Pete finished, nodding. Neither of them pointed out the idiocy of relying on that. There was only so much they could take. “Good. Okay, that’s good. Are you ready?”

Patrick fixed Pete with a disbelieving stare. 

“Am I ready?” he demanded. “Am I--would anyone be _ready_ for this kind of shit? _Ready?_ What kind of stupid--you know what, never mind.”

Patrick grabbed Pete’s hand, a newfound sense of determination growing in his chest. That whole--pretend-argument had felt so real, so _natural_ that Patrick was tired of feeling fake. Right now he felt wrong, like he’d been taken out of his body, stretched around like Laffy Taffy, then shoved unceremoniously back in, and he _hated_ it. And right now, it seemed like the only way to bring some normalcy back into his life was to talk to Allie, so fuck it. He was talking to Allie.

“Babe!” Allie said as they approached, then her gaze slid off Patrick to his and Pete’s joined hands and a scowl crossed her face, like low-hanging, threatening thunderclouds in the distance. Lightning flashed in her eyes, and sure, maybe Patrick was stretching the metaphor, but before he could go any further, Pete nudged him gently. 

Oh right.

“Allie,” he said, proud of how his voice mostly stayed even and calm. The crack was hardly noticeable, really. “We have a problem.”

“Clearly,” Allie sneered. “Care to explain why you’re holding hands with _him_?”

Allie said _him_ like it was an insult, like it burned the inside of her mouth, and Patrick was acutely aware of the people around them, openly staring and doing nothing to hide it. Great. Just what Patrick wanted. A captive audience. He cleared his throat. 

“I remember being married to Pete,” Patrick said, hoping he sounded firm. The onlookers gasped, like this was some soap opera. Patrick tried to ignore them. “Everyone else also remembers me being married to Pete, Allie. What can you give me to prove you’re married to me?”

“Prove?” Allie demanded. Her lips were thin, eyes hard. Patrick tried not to recoil. “I have to prove it now?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “Because now things don’t make sense.”

No sooner had the words left Patrick’s mouth than a spike of pain hit him in the temple. He gasped, hand flying to his head even as the pain grew and his vision dimmed. No, no, not this, not this again--

“Stop,” Pete said. His voice was crystal clear despite the pain and the steadily growing roaring in his ears. He felt a light pressure on his arm and hoped that was Pete. “Allie. Stop. Now.”

“Stop what?” Allie asked, and her attempt at innocence could teach Oscar winners some things. Patrick grit his teeth. “Patrick, honey, are you okay?”

Patrick’s vision was flickering again, dark spots dancing in his eyes, but he pushed himself to stay firm, though his body was tense with the pain and the wave of dizziness crashing over him. He swallowed, suddenly parched, and forced words out through frozen vocal chords. 

“Don’t call me honey,” Patrick managed, breath catching on every word. “I’m not your honey. You don’t have proof. We’re not married.”

Abruptly the pain stopped and Patrick exhaled hard, stumbling back a little until Pete gently steadied him. He blinked past the blurriness in his vision and looked at Allie, who was staring at him in what looked like shock. She looked like she’d been dunked into ice cold water, and, as Patrick stared at her, she...flickered. Like a dying lightbulb. 

“What did you say?” she asked in disbelief. Patrick rolled his shoulders back, standing up tall now that the pain was gone, looking Allie in the eye. 

“I said,” he said, voice even and measured. “We are not married.”

Allie flickered again. Patrick blinked, wondering for a second if he was wearing his glasses, but the frames in his peripheral vision told him he wasn’t seeing things. Allie’s edges were all blurred, too, and she looked completely blown away.

Beside him, Pete laid a gentle but supporting hand on his shoulder. 

“But,” Allie said, sounding desperate, like she was clutching at straws. “But what about the way he treated you?”

“What?” Patrick asked, thrown. That only seemed to embolden Allie, and her edges got a little sharper. 

“The way he treated you,” she repeated. Their audience was _captivated_ , but Patrick couldn’t spare a thought for them. “When you were just seventeen. He knew how you felt. He slept with you and left you.”

“But--” Patrick began, but Allie steamrolled over him, looking like she’d caught the right hook and was chasing it to a particularly bloody finish. 

“Remember working on _Infinity on High_?” she said. “And how he criticized every chord change you made even though he couldn’t read a note of music himself? What about all the love songs he made you sing when he _knew_ you still carried a torch for him?”

“I thought you said you didn’t know who he was,” Patrick said, frowning. Allie faltered before regaining her composure quickly. 

“Patrick, honey,” she said. “I just didn’t want to scare you. I pretended I didn’t know him to protect you.”

“Don’t call me _honey,_ ” Patrick repeated, and Allie faltered again. “What kind of person lies to their spouse when they’re in crisis?”

“I wanted to protect you!” Allie cried, but Patrick didn’t buy it. He didn’t buy any of it. He stood up straight, looking Allie dead in the eye. She looked pinned in place by his gaze. Good. 

“You didn’t protect me,” Patrick said. “Because there was nothing to protect me from.”

“But what about what he did?” Allie asked plaintively. Patrick shook his head, but Allie kept talking. “He hurt you so deeply and so badly and you’re just _okay_ with that?”

Patrick looked at Allie for a long moment, really _looked_ at her. She looked...bedraggled. That was the only word that came to mind. She was a far cry from the woman who Patrick thought was his wife a week ago. Her hair was ragged and unkempt, her clothes wrinkled and ripped, and she smelled like stale cigarette smoke and a little bit like a truck stop. 

Pete kissed him for the first time in a truck stop, way back when Patrick was seventeen. He’d been smoking right before. It was a memory that had made Patrick cry over and over for years because at the time, the kiss felt like Pete cared and Pete acted like he’d never do anything as stupid as that. 

For the first time, a thought occurred to Patrick. He wondered if Allie was even real. He wanted to pinch himself, but didn’t want to dislodge Pete’s hand. 

“Well?” Allie demanded. Patrick sighed.

“Pete’s made mistakes,” he agreed, looking over at Pete. His eyes were soft on Patrick, and Patrick felt warmth grow in his chest. He used it to bolster himself, looking back at Allie. “But then again, so have I.”

“It still bothers you, though,” Allie said. 

“If it does, that’s something I need to talk to Pete about,” Patrick said firmly. “It’s my responsibility to talk about my feelings. I have nobody but myself to blame if I’ve let them fester for so long.”

“But--”

“ _No_ ,” Patrick said loudly, over whatever attempts Allie was making to counter him. “I am not married to you. I am married to Pete. I chose Pete despite everything and I’m not changing my mind because you’ve tried to erase him from it.”

“I didn’t,” Allie said, but it was a bad lie. She looked uncomfortable. Patrick _knew_ it. He knew she’d done this. “I would never--”

“Are you even real?” Patrick asked. “Is this an elaborate dream my subconscious created for me?”

“I’m real,” Allie insisted, just as she flickered again. She was sort of translucent now, there and not there all at once, and Patrick was one _hundred_ percent sure she was not his wife.

“You’re not my wife,” Patrick said. “I am married to Pete. He’s married to me. And I choose to leave my insecurities behind.”

Allie froze, shimmering slightly, before her face twisted into a horrible, furious expression, teeth bared and eyes wild. 

“Fuck you,” she said, and exploded. 

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com and i need comments to live. love you!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pete?” Patrick asked weakly. Pete nodded. 
> 
> “Yeah, I’m here,” he said immediately. “What hurts?”
> 
> “My head,” Patrick managed. His eyes were shut tight. “Is she gone?”
> 
> “She’s gone,” Pete said, and, before he could react, Patrick opened his eyes and grabbed Pete’s collar, dragging him down to plant a kiss on his very surprised lips. Pete flailed for a moment, struggling to find his grounding, landing above Patrick like some romance movie hero, hands planted on either side of Patrick, kissing him like his life depended on it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here we are. the last chapter. i want to thank each and every one of you who read this, who came back every week for the update, who yelled at me in the comments, who gave me kudos and hits. thank you all from the bottom of my heart. i hope this chapter gives you everything you wanted. 
> 
> special thanks to the discord chat for endless encouragement and figuring out the proper way to spell pre-come with me. i love our tangents and our camaraderie. 
> 
> without further ado, the final chapter. will they resolve things? will patrick remember? only one way to find out!

Pete blinked bright lights out of his vision, surprised to find himself sprawled along the concrete, head pounding. Around him, people were groaning, like they hurt just as much, and once his vision cleared, Pete glanced around to see their audience on the ground as well. 

Checking himself over quickly and finding no major injuries, Pete pushed himself to his feet and staggered over to where Patrick had landed, a good ten feet from where he’d been. He was blinking groggily, hand pressed to his temple, curled up on his side. Pete knelt next to him, hovering uncertainly as Patrick got his bearings back. 

“Trick?” he asked finally, once Patrick seemed to be more present. Patrick groaned. “Trick, honey, are you okay?”

Patrick groaned again. Around them, people were muttering, climbing to their feet and looking to where Allie had been with disbelieving looks. Pete couldn’t blame them. Not every day someone explodes in front of you. At least there wasn’t any blood and guts. It was like Allie really _wasn’t_ real, which Pete had suspected for a while.

What she actually was was a mystery, but the important thing was she was gone. Pete brushed Patrick’s hair back and winced at the bruise on his forehead.

“Pete?” Patrick asked weakly. Pete nodded. 

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said immediately. “What hurts?”

“My head,” Patrick managed. His eyes were shut tight. “Is she gone?”

“She’s gone,” Pete said, and, before he could react, Patrick opened his eyes and grabbed Pete’s collar, dragging him down to plant a kiss on his very surprised lips. Pete flailed for a moment, struggling to find his grounding, landing above Patrick like some romance movie hero, hands planted on either side of Patrick, kissing him like his life depended on it. 

It kind of felt like it did. 

Patrick pulled away, eyes bright, cheeks pink, and breath heaving, and Pete grinned helplessly at him. 

“What was that for?” he croaked, and Patrick gave him a small, private grin. 

“For being so patient,” he said. “While I was getting my memories back. For not quitting. And because I love you.”

“What?” Pete asked intelligently. It felt like his brain had completely restarted in his skull at those three words, the words he’d been holding back for a week, the words he’d been dying to hear. _I love you_. Pete searched for a single word in the English language that would encapsulate the feeling gripping his chest, but all that came out was a strangled: “Huh?”

Patrick’s grin grew. 

“I love you,” he repeated. Pete’s brain restarted again, complete with the Mac rebooting noise, and Patrick just giggled a little. “And I remember.”

“You _what_?” Pete demanded, sure his eyes were huge. Patrick strained up to press a gentle kiss to the curve of Patrick’s jaw, which did not help Pete process words in the slightest. He chased Patrick’s mouth down, pressing light, repetitive kisses until he thought he might explode too. “You remember? Really?”

He couldn’t help how vulnerable he sounded. Patrick’s expression softened and he traced his fingers across Pete’s cheekbones, looking fond as Pete leaned into the touch. Patrick kissed Pete again, restarting his heart and stealing the breath from his lungs, before pulling back, hand still cupping Pete’s cheek. 

“Really,” Patrick confirmed, and Pete choked on an honest to God sob of relief. He ducked down, scattering kisses across Patrick’s face, before a question popped into his head. 

“All of it?” he asked, and Patrick nodded. “Even---”

“We got married on my birthday,” Patrick said, and another sob choked Pete. “It _rained_. You would not shut up about that being bad luck. I said I would divorce you before we even said our vows.”

“Patrick,” Pete whispered, voice cracking. Patrick slid his hand into Pete’s hair, tangling his fingers, scratching his scalp in the exact way Pete liked. Pete barely stopped himself from melting all over Patrick. “You remember.”

“I remember,” Patrick said. “You wore the stupidest blue suit.”

“You loved it,” Pete protested. His eyes were watering, tears threatening to fall. He’d done so much crying this week, but these tears were different. They felt like relief. They felt like home and love and everything Pete had missed with his whole entire heart. They tasted like Patrick. 

“I plead the fifth,” Patrick said. Pete ducked his head, pressing it into Patrick’s neck, breathing him in for a long moment. Patrick kept stroking Pete’s hair before he spoke again. “I loved you for so long.”

“I know,” Pete choked. “I know you did, and I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” Patrick said. “But I don’t hold it against you.”

“No?” Pete asked. He still was buried in Patrick’s neck. He didn’t think anything but divine intervention could pull him away from Patrick now. Patrick pressed a kiss to the top of Pete’s head. Pete melted the tiniest bit. 

“No,” Patrick said. “We wouldn’t have worked out at any point but now. And I’m sorry this happened. But I’m not angry at you, not anymore. I love you far too much for that.”

“I love you too,” Pete whispered. “I love you so much.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick repeated. Pete shook his head. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “It was Allie--whatever she was.”

“Not human,” Patrick guessed, and Pete nodded. “Witch?”

“I think those are flesh and blood,” he said. “Demon?”

“I’m an atheist,” Patrick said firmly. “A bitch?”

“I like that one,” Pete said, grinning. He pulled himself out from the comfort of Patrick to look at him. “Whatever she was--ghost, spirit, the embodiment of your past anxieties, she’s gone now.”

“And she’s never coming back,” Patrick said firmly. Pete hesitated, but Patrick shook his head. “She’s _never_ coming back.”

“Promise?” Pete asked. Patrick kissed him.

“With my whole heart,” he said, and Pete grinned, eyes still watery, those traitors. Running footsteps made Pete drag his attention from Patrick for the first time since Allie vanished, and he looked up to see Andy and Joe, looking absolutely stunned. 

Joe pointed from Patrick to Pete. 

“You were kissing,” he said stupidly. Pete didn’t have to look at Patrick to know he was rolling his eyes. 

“Yes, Joe,” he said patronizingly. “That’s what married people do sometimes.”

“You remember?” Joe demanded. 

“Everything,” Patrick confirmed. 

“And Allie?” Andy asked. Pete glanced down at Patrick, who shrugged.

“Gone,” Pete answered, looking back at his bandmates. “Vanished. Just ...poof.”

“There was a little more power than that,” Patrick said, and it was Pete’s turn to roll his eyes.

“I wouldn’t call it an explosion,” he said. “Otherwise there’d be an Allie sized crater in the ground.”

“Except Allie wasn’t real,” Patrick countered. “So no there wouldn’t.”

“Yep,” Andy said loudly. “He’s back.”

Pete and Patrick both burst into laughter, Pete dropping his forehead to Patrick’s shoulder, shaking with mirth that felt ripped from the bottom of his stomach. Patrick clutched Pete back, pressing kisses interrupted by giggling to his cheek. 

“So what was she?” Joe asked, as their laughter died down. Pete and Patrick exchanged another look. 

“We’re not sure,” Pete said. 

“I’m banking on an anthropomorphized version of all my repressed feelings,” Patrick said. 

“I’m banking on a demon,” Pete replied. Patrick made a face but didn’t argue. Instead, he cupped Pete’s cheeks and drew him into a long, slow kiss. Pete kissed back, sighing happily into Patrick’s mouth, until Joe very pointedly cleared his throat. 

“Just a minute,” Pete said, not even gracing him with a glance. He looked back into Patrick’s soft eyes. “I missed you so much.”

“I’m here,” Patrick said gently. “I’ll always be here.”

“I’ll never let you go,” Pete promised. “Not for a single second.”

Patrick smiled, kissing him again. 

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” he said, and, for the first time in a week, Pete breathed. 

\-----

“Excuse us,” Pete said, surprised he even had a second to speak to Joe and Andy as Patrick dragged him with a single-minded focus back onto the bus. “We need to have a discussion.”

“Sure,” Joe said, smirking, but Pete didn’t have time to retort because Patrick had pulled him away. He mostly imagined the looks he was getting, but they were enough to heat his cheeks up. 

“Make sure your discussion is over in an hour!” Andy shouted. “We need to leave!”

“Right!” Pete called back, distracted, and the bus door slammed shut, separating him and Patrick with a few layers of metal and glass. “What were you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that if I don’t get my mouth on your cock in the next ten seconds I might actually die,” Patrick said evenly, and Pete choked. “Shall we?”

“Well if you _insist_ ,” Pete said, feeling a little stupid as all available blood in his body shot down into his cock at the mere mention of Patrick and oral, like the world’s weirdest Pavlovian response. Patrick smirked, the utter bastard, and dropped to his knees. “Fuck.”

“That’s the idea,” Patrick said breathlessly, fluttering his eyelashes. Pete rolled his eyes. “If I suck your cock will you forgive me for forgetting you exist?”

“That wasn’t exactly your fault,” Pete gasped, hips pushing into Patrick’s clever, clever hands, callouses the perfect amount of roughness. “But I’m not gonna stop you. Fuck, keep doing that.”

“I could,” Patrick said, and then _stopped_ , the asshole. “Or I could...”

“Yeah,” Pete choked out as Patrick ducked his head and took Pete’s cock deep, until Patrick’s nose was pressed to Pete’s pubic hair. Pete grabbed a handful of Patrick’s hair, and he didn’t even get a dirty look for it. “Fuck, yeah, just like that.”

Patrick hummed around Pete’s cock and it was truly an act of divine intervention that prevented Pete from coming immediately. He made a mental note to pray some thanks before he was thoroughly distracted by something breathtakingly clever Patrick did with his tongue, making Pete’s toes curl and hands tighten. 

“Babe,” Pete groaned, and whined in disappointment as Patrick pulled off. 

“If we had time,” he said lowly, grasping Pete’s cock and giving it a few tight, perfect strokes. “Or if I had the patience, I would fuck you _to death_ right on this bus floor.”

“Don’t make promises you’re not gonna keep,” Pete complained, and Patrick smirked up at him before mouthing teasingly around the head of Pete’s cock, licking up the trails of pre-come before taking pity on Pete and his increasingly desperate noises. Pete swore, a long drawn out _fuck_ directed to the bus ceiling or possibly also God, hips thrusting halfway, stopped only by Patrick digging nails warningly into the skin of Pete’s thighs. 

Pete was pretty sure Patrick was slowly sucking Pete’s brain out through his cock, but what a way to go. Patrick deepthroated, nails digging hard into Pete’s skin, and it was over so fast Pete might as well have been a goddamn teenager again. 

He shouted, a wordless noise, and came into Patrick’s mouth, twitching weakly as he watched Patrick swallow, an action that would never fail to turn him back on (and was also an inconvenient trigger whenever Patrick swallowed anything, including water on stage.) Gasping to get some semblance of oxygen back into his lungs, he sank to the floor, legs like jelly and lightheaded.

Patrick stroked his fingers down the back of his neck as he rested his head on Patrick’s shoulder, breathing hard. He was uncharacteristically quiet, just letting Pete come down from the truly impressive high at his own pace. 

“That,” Pete managed, once he’d restarted his brain. “Wow. You. Wow.”

“He’s speechless,” Patrick said, sounding amused. “What an accomplishment by Patrick Stump. This was probably the best performance of his entire career.”

“I’ll show you _best performance_ ,” Pete said, and all but tackled Patrick onto his back, climbing on top of him and kissing him hard, chasing the taste of himself on Patrick’s tongue. Patrick giggled into the kiss and Pete pulled away, sucking biting kisses down Patrick’s neck, tonguing over his collarbone before working at Patrick’s pants. 

“You gonna suck my cock?” Patrick asked, in That Tone that turned Pete into a pile of goo every time. He got Patrick’s pants undone and pulled his cock free, thumbing over the head. Patrick hissed, pushing his hips up into Pete’s grip and groaning when Pete didn’t give him the firm stroking touch he wanted. Pete smirked even as Patrick cracked his eyes open to glare at him.

“Anything for you,” Pete said to Patrick’s wordless demand, and ducked down to take Patrick into his mouth. 

Patrick gave a strangled cry, tangling his hands in Pete’s hair and arching his back. He was such a fucking pretty sight. Pete was so lucky to have this back. 

Patrick’s cock was easily the nicest cock Pete had ever seen. It was just thick enough to make his jaw ache a little, something he definitely got off on. Basically, Pete was a big fan of Patrick’s cock.

He was also a big fan of the noises Patrick made when he was getting sucked off, too. He opened his jaw, letting Patrick’s cock slide in that much deeper, shivering at the low groan he got for that effort. Patrick was leaking steadily, a testament to both Pete’s talent (he sucked cock well, thank you very much) and how turned on Patrick was. As if the needy, desperate noises he was making weren’t clear enough. 

“Pete, Pete, Pete,” Patrick panted, gripping Pete’s hair with just the right amount of tightness. “Pete, Pete, I’m close, I’m—”

Pete chose that moment to take Patrick’s cock in as far as possible and Patrick whined, arching back up and coming immediately. Pete swallowed—he didn’t really have another choice with Patrick’s cock so far down his throat, but still—and licked him clean as Patrick sprawled, boneless, on the floor underneath Pete. 

Pete kissed him and Patrick tried valiantly to kiss back, but he was mostly a puddle of goo so Pete forgave him for the sloppy effort. He rolled over to lay beside Patrick, aware that both of their cocks were hanging out but not really caring. Patrick groped for his hand, clasping it in his and pressing his lips to the back of it. Pete grinned, heart warm and lighter than it had been all week. 

“Andy said the way to cure you was to make you fall back in love with me,” Pete said, and Patrick smiled. “Did it work?”

“You’re a regular Casanova,” Patrick assured him. He looked over at Pete, a question in his eyes, but only hesitated for a second before pushing on. “Do you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Pete said, frowning. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“It kind of was,” Patrick said. “Allie—she— _it_ was, like, a physical manifestation of all the issues I was burying. It wouldn’t have happened if I addressed them.”

“You’re not the only one who didn’t address lingering issues,” Pete said firmly. “So we both made mistakes. So what. We got through them, didn’t we?”

“Do you forgive me for before the hiatus?” Patrick asked, voice small, and Pete rolled onto his side to press his lips softly to Patrick’s cheek. Patrick turned, allowing their lips to meet briefly, before he pulled back. “I’m sorry for what I did.”

“I forgive you,” Pete said, heart skipping in something like pure, suffocating, raw love for this man laying beside him, asking for absolution. “Do you forgive me?”

He didn’t need to elaborate. He knew Patrick knew exactly what things Pete was apologizing for. Patrick swallowed, pressing their lips together again and squeezing his hand. 

“I forgive you,” he said finally, and Pete’s heart leapt. “I forgive all of you. I love you, Pete Wentz.”

“I love you, Patrick Stump,” Pete replied, blinking rapidly as tears pricked his eyes. “Will you stay married to me?”

Patrick grinned, eyes bright and open and warm like Pete didn’t realize he missed so much until he saw them. Pete had a moment to remember the raw thrill of seeing Patrick across from him at their wedding, clasping hands in front of all their family and friends and promising to love each other forever. 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” Patrick said, and Pete laughed even as Patrick tried to kiss him, laughed and laughed and laughed and thought, wildly, _I am the luckiest person on the planet._

——

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com. let me know how i did in the comments, if you so desire.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com!


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